#sim jake fluff

°˖➴ .ᐟ wow ok this is my BABY. what started out as me being an emotional angsty girl in her time of month, tmi sorry, turned into the longest thing i've written and i genuinely loved writing it but also nervvyyy lol bc i feel this one is heavier than my usual kind of style? & i got so much excitement for this one so i really hope it meets everyone's expectations :3 but ty for being patient and excited and sticking around with me when i disappeared a lil bit and haven't really done a long fic in a while <3 i appreciate each & every one of you guys and everything gets noticed so thank u very very very much mwah (˶ˆᗜˆ˵) hope you guys enjoy <3

jake had spent the last eight months telling himself he was fine. which, if we're being honest, is already not a particularly encouraging sentence.

people who are fine don't usually spend eight consecutive months reminding themselves that they're fine. people who are actually fine just go about their day. people who are not fine, however, tend to wake up on a random tuesday, stare at the ceiling fan for forty-five minutes, and have to convince themselves they're fine. 

jake knew this. and unfortunately for him, knowing something and doing something about it was two completely different skills that he had no idea how to differentiate.

the thing is, there were days when he was genuinely fine. really. there were entire afternoons where he didn't think about you once. moments where he would be halfway through a conversation with heeseung or laughing at something stupid jay said and realize, with a small burst of relief, that an entire hour passed without your name crossing his mind. which, yes, he's aware it sounds pathetic, but heartbreak has a funny way of lowering the bar like that. eight months later, jake was still collecting small victories wherever he could find them.

still, there was another reason why he kept insisting he was fine, and this one is probably the realest one of them all—because that's just what everybody says after a breakup.

especially when the breakup involves what jake would describe, with absolutely no exaggeration whatsoever, as the best thing that has ever happened to him in his twenty three years of being alive. and that might sound dramatic, but to jake, it was just true. it wasn't anything like a rom-com, nothing cinematic or perfectly timed. nobody ran through an airport, nobody stood outside anybody's window holding a boombox.

it was worse than that, actually. it was ordinary. it was the quiet, ordinary kind of best thing that sneaks up on you and becomes the shape of your days before you even know it. the kind where you wake up next to someone and the first thing you do is reach for them without thinking, because their body becomes as familiar as your own. the kind where inside jokes turn into entire languages only the two of you speak. the kind where you start keeping their favorite snacks in your cabinet and they leave an extra toothbrush at your sink, because of course.

you and jake had been together for three and a half years, and somewhere in the middle of that stretch of time he had stopped thinking of himself as a singular person and starting thinking in plurals. we should try that new ramen place. we need to remember to water the plant before we leave for the weekend. we'll figure it out. he had liked the way it sounded. the way it felt. like the two of you were building something forever-shaped.

it started slow, the way only real things tend to. a shared friend group that slowly narrowed until it was just the two of you staying up too late on the couch, talking about nothing and everything until the sun came up. then it was late night texts that turned into late night calls that turned into late night car rides where the rest of the group was conveniently not invited. then it was the first time he kissed you—properly, too, not in the heat of the moment but rather after waiting for a long time—and the way you had smiled against his mouth like you'd been waiting for it too. by the time anyone in the group noticed, you were already something solid. something that made sense. the guys teased you both about it constantly, but jake didn't mind. he liked the way it felt to be known like that. to have someone who saw every version of him, the charming one he showed the world, the quiet one who got overwhelmed around too many people, the one who still sometimes doubted he deserved good things—and stayed anyways.

you built a life in the small spaces of jake's life that he hadn't realized was missing you. weekends at his place or yours, trading hoodies and playlists and the kind of easy domesticity that felt revolutionary at twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. you knew how he took his coffee (two sugars, splash of oat milk) and he knew the exact pressure to use when rubbing your ankles after a long day. you had matching scars from the time you both tried to cook something ambitious and set off the smoke alarm three separate times. you had a list of 'stupid things we've done together' that lived in the notes app on your phone. he introduced you to his family over video calls and during the holidays, you fit there too—laughing in the kitchen with his mom, letting his little cousins climb all over you like you'd always been part of the chaos.

but yeah, jake was fine. jake was fine because he had gotten very good at only remembering the good moments. which was pretty easy, if he was being honest, because that was pretty much most of all three and a half years of it, which only made the end hurt only worse. there was that one rainy sunday in your apartment, the one with the leaky faucet in the kitchen he kept meaning to fix and never did. you had woken up before him, which was rare, and instead of getting up you stayed curled against his side, tracing lazy patterns on his bare stomach with your fingertips while the rain tapped against the window. jake had pretended to still be asleep just to feel it a little longer. he remembered the exact weight of your leg thrown over his, the way you kept humming some half remembered song under your breath. eventually you got up to make coffee—badly, because you always forgot how many grounds to use—and brought it back to bed anyways. you climbed on top of him, straddling his lap, and handed him the mug with that little smirk that said you knew it was terrible but were proud of it anyway.

"drink it and tell me it's good," you said, your voice still heavy, hair still messy, eyes still sleepy.

jake had taken a sip, made a face, and said, "it's the best coffee i've ever had in my entire life."

"liar."

"would i lie to you?"

you then leaned down and kissed him, slow and unhurried, tasting like bad coffee and late mornings and the kind of quiet happiness that just tends to show up on its own. your hands had slid into his hair and he pulled you closer until there was no space left between you, and for a while the leaky faucet and the rain and everything else outside that bed stopped existing.

and yeah, it wasn't all perfect, no relationship that real ever is. there were the harder nights, the ones that proved you were both still human, that you could hurt each other even when you didn't mean to. there was the one night in the middle of fall, maybe three months before the end. you were stretched thin by exam season and jake with his own mounting pressure of what came after graduation and the quiet fear that he wasn't moving fast enough, wasn't good enough, wasn't enough period. it started off small, something about him canceling your plans last minute. you had been tired and a little too sharp, he had been defensive and a little too quiet. it escalated in his kitchen, voices rising, the kind of argument where old insecurities got dragged into the light because you knew each other too well to keep anything hidden.

"you always do this," you had said, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in frustration. "you pull away when things get hard and then act like i'm the one being difficult for noticing."

"i'm not pulling away," jake had shot back, even though part of him knew he was. "i'm trying to figure my shit out so i don't drag you down with me."

"that's not how this works, jaeyun!" you had paused then to take a breath, as if to steady yourself. then, smaller, softer, "you don't get to decide what i can handle, i'm not some fragile thing you have to protect from your bad days."

jake had faltered midstep at the sound of his name, the sound having landed somewhere deep, cutting straight through the defensive haze he wrapped himself in. he hated fighting with you, hated the way your voice got tight because he knows you cry whenever you get overwhelmed, hated the way his own chest felt like it was caving in because he loved you so much it made every sharp word feel like it was cutting him too.

it ended the way most of them did, with one of you cracking first. this time it had been him. he crossed the kitchen in two steps, pulled you into his arms even though you were still stiff and angry, and buried his face in your neck.

"i'm sorry," he had mumbled against your skin. "i'm an idiot. i know i'm an idiot."

you stayed rigid for a few seconds longer, then your arms had come up around him and your voice had gone soft in that way it only did for him. "yeah, you are."

later that night you ended up on the couch, your head in his lap while some mindless show played in the background. his fingers were in your hair, gentle and light, and you had looked up at him with that small tired smile and asked, "we're gonna be okay, right?"

jake had nodded like he believed it. like he could will it into existence just by wanting it hard enough. those nights had always felt survivable back then. like proof that you could get through anything as long as you kept choosing each other at the end of it.

and then there was the last and final night.

it happened on a normal tuesday night that had felt completely unsuspecting when you both woke up that morning. except jake had already been in his own head silently, falling back into that old, familiar pattern of doubting himself, the future, and every uncertain thing that stood in between the two of you.

it happened in his room this time, the plant you both had jokingly named after jay still half-dead and the string lights you forced him to hang blinking above you. you had been sitting on the floor with your back against his bed, knees pulled to your chest, wearing one of his old hoodies because you always did. jake sat across from you, legs stretched out, trying to find the right words and failing.

"i just think…" he had started, then stopped. then started again. "we've been doing this for a long time now. and i love you. i really fucking love you." his voice almost cracked, so he looked down at his hands. "but sometimes it feels like we're holding each other back from figuring out who we are without the other person in the middle of everything."

you had looked at him for a long time without saying anything. your eyes were shiny in that way that meant you were holding back tears, and jake felt something in his chest twist so violently.

"and that's not your fault. it's not. it's just—" he exhaled shakily. "you're in everything. every plan i make, every place i go, every version of my future i imagine. and i know that sounds like a good thing."

"it's not?" you asked quietly, like you were scared for the answer.

"i don't know," he whispered. "i don't know if it is when i can't tell if i'm choosing things because i want them or because they keep me close to you."

he remembers the way your eyes filled when you looked at him then. "are you…unhappy with me?"

jake looked up fast. "no."

he had reached for your hand then, selfishly, stupidly threading his fingers through yours like he could still be the person who comforted you while simultaneously becoming the person to ever hurt you the most.

"no," he repeats immediately, shaking his head. "i just—i don't want to lose you. that's the last thing i want. but i also don't want to wake up in five years and realize i never figured out who i was because loving you was the easiest thing to do instead."

you had then nodded slowly. a tear slipped down your cheek and you wiped it away. then another and another, until wiping them away became useless.

"okay," you finally whispered, nodding again because you had loved him enough to let him go if that's what he thought he needed.

it wasn't what jake needed, he would realize many months down the road. not at all. but at the time, terrified and twenty-something and stupid enough to mistake pain and insecurities for maturity, it was what he had convinced himself was best for both of you. the right choice, the one that would hurt less in the long run.

it was selfish, is what he would also realize. because he didn't save either of you from pain at all, it would turn out. he only made sure he was the one holding the knife, so that maybe breaking your heart first felt safer than waiting around for you to break his.

you had stayed on the floor for a long time after that, neither of you quite ready to stand up and make it real. eventually jake shifted to sit next to you, your head instinctively falling to rest against his shoulder, eyes closed, breathing the same shared air one last time.

"i love you," you had said, so, so quietly in between your tears that he almost missed it.

he closed his eyes too. "i know. i love you too."

when you finally left, the door had clicked shut with a sound that felt a little too gentle for how much everything had just changed. jake sat on the floor for maybe another hour, staring at the half-dead plant and the single burnt out bulb on the string lights and the empty space where you had been, and told himself over and over again that this was the right thing. that love sometimes meant letting go. that he would be fine.

he was still telling himself that.

jake was still telling himself that he was fine because he had to be fine. the group made it pretty much impossible to disappear cleanly from your life. that was the thing about sharing the same three people who had been in the same orbit for years. every late night takeout run, every casual 'you coming?' text in the group chat kept pulling you both back into the same room. he convinced himself that two people who had once been everything to each other could still be friends, real friends too, not just the polite kind of acquaintances who avoided eye contact. that it was possible to love someone and let them go and still sit across from them in the living room during game night without the world ending.

jake had gotten good at it, mostly. at first it was awkward because, well, of course it would be. it was the kind of stiff, overly polite dance where you both speak a little too carefully and laughed a little too loudly and made sure to never sit a little too closely. the first group hangout after the break up felt like walking through a minefield, honestly. every shared glance, every accidental brush of hands when passing snacks, every time someone said something that used to be an inside joke between just the two of you. he remembered how you smiled at him that night like it hurt to do it, and how he had smiled back the same way.

but time did its thing, the way it always does. slowly, painfully, things started to settle into something that almost felt normal. he could sit across from you at jay's place now and steal fries off heeseung's plate and not stare too long when you tuck your hair behind your ear the way you always do when you were overthinking. he could text updates in the groupchat without his thumb hovering over your name first, without typing and deleting three different versions of a message that used to be just for you.

there were even the small moments where it started to feel almost normal again. like the one particular night sunghoon had made a dry comment about 'exes who still share the same three friends and see each other every day are the strongest soldiers.' the whole table burst into laughter, even jake. you had laughed too, bright and genuine, and for a second your eyes had met across the table and something soft and knowing had passed between you. and jake didn't really know if it was pain or longing or both. maybe it was recognition, like both of you understood exactly how ridiculous and impossible this arrangement was, and yet here you both were.

because this version, this careful friendship, the polite distance, the shared laughs that didn't really quite reach as deep as they used to—was better than nothing. better than losing you completely. better than waking up one day and realizing the friendship that was the foundation of everything you two had ever built had been completely destroyed all because jake woke up one morning and made a rash, terrified decision he still wasn't sure he believed in.

so he showed up. he smiled at the right times. he stole fries and sent his updates and laughed at sunghoon's jokes and pretended the ache in his chest was just old habit. and most days it was fine.

but fine was a fragile thing. a fragile, sheer layer that cracked in the quiet moments. in the way he caught the faint trace of your perfume on a hoodie he swore he'd wash after the breakup, or when his phone lit up with a notification with your name and his heart did that hopeful little stutter thing before he realized it was you texting the groupchat, not just him. fine was what he wore like armor, but underneath it the truth sat heavy and patient, the kind that lived in the small details of the past. like how he still knew exactly how you liked your eggs cooked, the way his hands remember the shape of your waist even when they had no right to anymore, the way he still hears the way 'jaeyun' would slip from your mouth, the only person in the world allowed to use that version of his name like it was something precious.

jake told himself he was fine. he still believes it. well, most nights he believes it.

tonight was not most nights.

the party is loud in the way parties stop being fun after twenty two and start being endurance tests—bass vibrating too hard through the floorboards, red cups everywhere, that specific smell of cheap vodka and someone's cologne that was trying too hard. jake doesn't even fully remember how you all ended up here, it was something along the lines of all five of you lazily sprawled across jay's living room with a movie no one was watching playing in the background until jay mentioned something about knowing a guy who knows a guy who was throwing a house warming party even though he moved in over six months ago and now here we are.

jake had been doing alright the first hour, he'd taken two shots with sunghoon and heeseung just to feel something, let jay rope him into some dumb drinking game that mostly involved shouting and losing, and nodded easily when you told the group you were going to go say hi to some people you recognized. he didn't think about it too much, which was a good habit he found himself trying to get better at more recently—not overthinking every little thing you did, not letting his eyes follow you across rooms like they still had the right to.

but then everything and anything he learned about good habits was thrown right out the window the second he looks over and searches for you, solely only because he's being a good friend, he tells himself. just making sure you were okay, just checking, nothing more. the lie sits easy on his tongue even as his eyes scan across the crowded room, past the clusters of people and the haze of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke drifting in from the balcony. he finds you near the kitchen island, leaning against the counter in that comfortable, familiar way, talking to yang jungwon.

now, yang jungwon was the kind of guy who just kind of existed to jake, a friend, but the kind that never really orbited in his life. he was younger, a little removed from the group, the kind of person whose life didn't collide with jake's enough for a solid, everyday friendship to form. to jake, he was always kind of like background noise, someone he used to nod at across campus, someone he sees at parties and gives a quick 'hey' to before moving on and that's it. never someone significant enough to warrant a second thought in jake's head.

until jake looks over and finds you looking at jungwon. and then what occurs in jake's head isn't only a second thought, but a third, a fourth and maybe the beginning of a fifth. all of which are circling the same stupid, irrational thing: jake hates yang jungwon.

because now here he is, watching the way jungwon leans in a little closer when he speaks, the way your hand brushes against his arm when you make a point. the way you look relaxed in a way jake hasn't seen in a while, shoulders soft, smile easy, the kind of open that used to be reserved for early nights and late mornings when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world felt far away.

and the worst part is that jake couldn't even be mad at jungwon. jungwon, who was all bright smiles and sweet and a little shy and looked at you like he was trying not to look too hard. jungwon, the kind of person who probably remembered birthdays without being reminded and asked follow up questions about people's days. jungwon, the kind of person who probably returned rogue shopping carts in the grocery store's parking lot. jungwon, who didn't know that the last time you laughed like that was because jake said something stupid on purpose just to watch your eyes crinkle at the corners in that way that always made his chest feel too full.

that's the funny thing about perspective. because here's the thing. jake had been looking at the breakup entirely from one side of it, his side. the side where he lost you. which, objectively speaking, was terrible enough on its own. but still, loss is a strangely selfish thing. because when someone loses something, they almost center themselves around the surrounding artifacts of what is no longer theirs. for jake, it was the calls he didn't get anymore, or the newly cold and empty space beside him in bed. or like how he still pauses in grocery aisles in front of snacks he didn't even like because buying them for you became so automatic that not buying them felt stranger. he spent so long mourning the absence of you that he never really stopped to consider what came after.

because yes, you're now his ex-girlfriend. yes, the relationship was over. yes, he had been the one to end it. all of those were true. but there was another truth too, the one that he unfortunately believes in more than the former—that the two of you had loved each other for three and a half years. and that doesn't just disappear. there were entire pieces of one another that would always belong to that relationship, memories nobody else would understand, inside jokes nobody else would find funny. versions of yourselves that only existed because the other person had been there to witness them. it was something sacred, in a way. sacred and special and it belonged to you and him and him and you and some small, selfish part of jake maybe took comfort in that. because even after everything, it still felt like yours and his. like nobody else could ever touch it, understand it, or even come near to it.

but then jake looks across the room and sees you laughing and suddenly, a realization hits him hard enough to make his stomach drop. that you weren't just something he lost. you were someone who would keep going, someone who would keep living. someone who would keep collecting new memories and new experiences and new people. and someone who would eventually fall in love again and be loved.

the thought sat heavy in his chest like a bruise that he couldn't stop pressing. jake was all at once suddenly and painfully aware that not only did he take you out of his future, but he had given you back to the rest of the world. that the version of you he still carried in his head wouldn't just be his anymore. that one day it would belong to someone else, someone who would look at you for five minutes and immediately understand why jake had loved you for three and a half years. someone like jungwon, who was sweet and safe and looking at you like he already knew exactly how lucky that would make him.

jake takes a long sip from his drink. then another. then another. as if enough of whatever concoction this is in his cup might somehow make him stop thinking. and obviously, because we all know how this goes, it doesn't. if anything, it makes the spiral worse, because now he's really watching. and once jake starts watching you, he's kind of screwed.

he watches the way you're smiling, real and unguarded, the way you lightly shove jungwon's shoulder after something he says, the way he grins, the way you grin back. and suddenly jake is very aware that he hates this. which is ridiculous because, really, nothing is happening. because jungwon is jungwon. because you're allowed to talk to whoever you want. because jake is twenty-three years old, not twelve. because he broke up with you. because he broke up with you. because he—

the thought doesn't get to finish itself. jake is already moving. already halfway across the room before his brain catches up. because apparently all that maturity he spent the last eight months building could be taken out behind a shed and shot the second he saw you smiling at somebody else.

and before he knows it, before he could let himself think about what he's doing for even a second, he's right there against you, his arm sliding around your waist before either of you could react, fingers spreading possessive and familiar over the curve of your hip like they had every right to be there. the warmth of your body against his side hits him like a memory he didn't realize he wasn't ready for. and for the first time in eight months, for one stupid, selfish second, jake felt like he was home again.

"there you are," he says, low enough that only you could hear the small crack in his voice. he then presses a quick, deliberate kiss to your temple, the kind of small, possessive thing that used to make you roll your eyes and smile at the same time. the kind of thing that he's done a thousand times before that used to mean absolutely nothing but now means entirely too much.

everything in your body immediately goes still and jake feels it. he feels the way you freeze beneath his arm, the sharp inhale you try to hide. he feels jungwon's eyes snap to him. then yours. but jake's committed now. or perhaps more accurately, he's already ruined his own life.

"been looking everywhere for you."

there's a horrifying two seconds of silence where nobody says anything.

jungwon then blinks, his eyes flicking between the two of you with that polite confusion that says he's realizing in real time that he's stepping into something he didn't really have the full context for.

"oh—shit, sorry, i didn't know you guys got back—"

"yeah, yeah we did," jake cut in smoothly, smiling like he had everything totally under control and didn't just lie right through his teeth with ease. your head whips towards him. jake pointedly does not look at you. instead, his thumb strokes once, slow and instinctive against your hip under the hem of your top before he could stop it. "right, baby?"

you don't answer right away. the music pulses around you, the lights catch your eyes, and for a second jake recognizes that look and that's when he realizes he's absolutely done for, that he pretty much dug his own grave and is actively getting in it.

jungwon then backs up slightly, mumbling something polite about catching up later before he finally turns and disappears into the crowd. the second he's out of sight, you spin in jake's hold, shoving his chest with both hands, and the look on your face is the one he had been waiting for and dreading in equal measure.

"what the fuck, jake?"

jake blinks at you slowly, like his brain was still catching up to what his body had done. like he's only just realizing that he crossed an invisible line that he laid down himself and then proceeded to sprint fifty feet past it.

"i thought we were good," you say, your voice tight as you look up at him, eyes wide and filled with the familiar mix of frustration and hurt that he knows all too well.

jake's jaw flexes, like he was trying hard to hold back every single, selfish, ugly emotion he'd been suffering with ever since you walked out of those apartment doors eight months ago and took half of him with you. his hold tightens too, his fingers pressing into your side before he answers, exhaling through his nose.

"we are good." the words come out too fast, too defensive. he heard it and hated it.

you let out a short, disbelieving laugh, "right. yeah. because that was totally normal."

he hesitates for a moment, the small distance forcing his eyes to flick down to your mouth for half a second before he forced them back up.

"c'mon, i mean…you—" the words stopped. for a second he just stands there, just looking at you, accepting that this is the closest he's been to you ever since eight months ago and this could very well be the last time he ever will be. just looking at you and the way your lips press together like you were holding back something much bigger than anger. and then at the very, very obvious fact that even now, even when upset at him, you still haven't stepped back. neither of you have. eight months of carefully curated distance and here you were again, letting him hold you like this in the middle of a crowded room.

"jungwon," he says finally, quieter. "really?"

"and what's wrong with jungwon," you ask, voice deceptively calm, your mouth quirked in that way where jake can't tell if you're annoyed or amused, or both.

his thumb moves without permission, a quick stroke against your hip, restless and desperate. "he's a kid."

"he's like a year younger than me," you shoot back, tilting your head, the movement bringing your faces a fraction even closer.

jake's jaw tightens. "he's still in school."

you stare at him for a long second, something dangerous and challenging sparkling behind your eyes. then the corner of your mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close enough to make his stomach flip.

"i'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that," you say, voice laced with that teasing edge that always used to get under his skin in the best way. "since when did you become such a possessive old man, jaeyun?"

jake closes his eyes at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue, trying his hardest to pretend it didn't hit him the way it always did whenever you called him that. he sighs, the sound quiet and exhausted, in that defeated kind of way that tells you this isn't coming from completely out of no where.

"c'mon, y/n," his voice is softer now, almost pleading. "i know you."

"right," you scoff, but your stance falters slightly. "so you know what's best for me, right? for the both of us?"

and that lands somewhere. somewhere deep and hard and admittedly more vulnerably raw than he wishes it had. his fingers tighten slightly around you, his breath hitching for a moment before he catches himself.

"c'mon..don't be like that," he murmurs, eyes searching yours like he was looking for an exit he already knew didn't exist. his hand slides a little higher against you, his palm now flat against the warm skin of your lower back. "you know i'm not trying to—"

"i'm not being anything," you cut in, voice quieter now but still edged with that defensive frustration, "you're the one who decided to make it weird. you're the one who came over here and—" your voice breaks off with a shaky laugh. you shake your head then, eyes now shining. "you know what, this is stupid. whatever."

a beat of silence stretches again between you, jake still unmoving, holding you right there against him. your bodies were nearly flush now in the cramped room, your knee slotted between his thighs, every point of contact painfully impossible to ignore.

then, soft and almost reluctant, you whisper, "let go of me, yun."

he swallows hard, voice low and defeated when he finally answers, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

"i kinda really don't want to."

the confession hangs there in the small space between your bodies, the truth heavy and honest in a way that solved absolutely nothing and made everything worse. you let out another small scoff, but despite yourself you still don't pull away. you don't push him. you just stay right there, letting him hold you, neither of you making any real effort to create distance. then, your eyes meet his in the dim party light, dark and shining and full of the same messy, desperate thing he was feeling. you break the silence first.

"how drunk are you?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"not at all."

you pause, studying him. your gaze traces his face like you were memorizing it, like you were actively aware you were making a mistake but couldn't bring yourself to stop. then, slowly, hesitantly, one of your hands slid up from his shirt, fingers trailing along his collarbone before curving around the back of his neck, finding the ends of his hair automatically, mindlessly playing with the strands in that familiar way that always used to make his breath catch.

your eyes then meet his again and something flashed between you, something tired and hurt and full of everything you weren't supposed to feel anymore.

"sober enough to drive me home?" you ask after a moment.

"yes ma'am."

and for another agonizingly long second you just watch him again, eyes searching like you were waiting for one of you to be smart enough to stop this. to choose self-preservation over whatever this still was between you.

"liar."

jake's breath hitches. a small, low chuckle escapes him.

"would i lie to you?"

and what happens next is, what jake would later say, probably not his brightest idea.

the backseat of jake's car is cramped and all too familiar.

the second the door shut behind you both, it was as if the last thread of restraint never even existed. jake barely has any time to lock the doors before you're on him, or maybe it was him on you. it's messy from the start, your hands fisting in his shirt, yanking him closer as his mouth crashes into yours like he'd been starving for it, which, yes. eight months is a long time, so he won't deny that part. the kiss is all teeth and heat and months of pent up frustration. he tastes like a mix of beer and something that was just him, something that makes you make a small, broken sound against his mouth that goes straight to his head.

jake's hands go everywhere at once, one sliding up the back of your shirt to press flat against the warm skin of your back, the other gripping your thigh as he pulls you into his lap. the movement is clumsy in the tight space, your knee knocks against the seat, his elbow hits the window, the car rocks slightly with the shift of weight, but neither of you care. you pull back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes wide.

"we're not getting back together," you mutter, voice already rough and gasping.

jake's mouth stays on your jaw, going lower and lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck. "i didn't say we were," he mumbles against your skin, teeth grazing slightly before soothing it with his tongue. his hands slip higher under your shirt, palms dragging up and down your sides like he needed to relearn every inch.

you tilt your head back, giving him better access even as your fingers tighten in his hair. "you're such an asshole," you breathe, the scoff cracking in your throat as a moan slips out anyways. "getting all jealous over jungwon like you have any right to—"

that's when jake makes a low, rough sound in the back of his throat and tugs you harder against him, rolling his hips up so you can feel exactly how much he didn't care about being called an asshole right now. "don't say his name while i'm trying to kiss you," he mutters, voice muffled against your collarbone.

you let out a short, breathless laugh and tug his head back by the hair so you can look at him, your eyes dark, lips parted. "you're the one who started it," the words low, your mouth barely touching his. "coming over there like some possessive ex."

"i am a possessive ex," he cuts in, voice wrecked before leaning in and kissing you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to shut you up and pull you closer at the same time. one of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers toying with the button of your jeans without actually undoing it quite yet. "and you're still letting me touch you like this, so what does that make you?"

you bite his bottom lip in retaliation, hard enough to make him groan, head falling back against the seat as you drag your mouth down his neck. "someone who's definitely not getting back together with you," you whisper back against his mouth, even as your hips roll down against the hard line of him through his pants. his breath hitches sharply at the sensation, his hand sliding fully into your back pocket now, gripping you harder against him, guiding you into a rhythm that was hungry and messy and perfect.

"good," he pants between kisses, voice lower and desperate. "because i'm not asking you to."

but even as the words left his mouth, you could feel the lie in them just from the way he kisses you after that. like he's trying to pour everything he can't bring himself to say into the press of his mouth. like he was contradicting every careful denial he just made. his hands held you like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go for even a second, his hips rolling up to meet yours in that slow, needy rhythm that said everything he refused to.

you both knew it.

you pull back again, breathing heavier, lips shiny, "this is so stupid."

jake doesn't respond yet, instead he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, slow and deliberate, lips dragging along your skin until he finds that spot he remembers just below your ear. he starts gently at first, then sucks even harder, pulling a soft sound from your throat as he leaves a mark you're definitely going to hate him for tomorrow—amongst many, many other things. when he finally pulls back, he tilts his head back up to look at you, his eyes half-lidded, dazed and dark, pupils grown wide with something that looked a lot like surrender. no more careful distance, no more bite. just the pure, raw, unguarded want.

"yeah," he agrees, voice hoarse. "so stop me."

and well, you don't. because again, loss is a funny, selfish little thing. it makes you greedy, it makes you reach for what you know will hurt you later, just because the ache of not having it right now felt worse.

so you lean back in and kiss him again, slower this time, deeper like you were both finally admitting that the last eight months had been one long, exhausting lie you were both too tired to keep telling. you just pull him in even closer, and jake responds instantly, arms wrapping around you tighter, like he could somehow press the two of you back together if he held on hard enough, until there's no more fight between you. no more denial, no more pretending you could keep ignoring what still lived in the space between your bodies. just two people giving in.

you don't stop him when his hand drifts from your neck down to the front of your jeans, fingers toying with the button again until it finally pops open. you don't stop him when he tugs the fabric down your hips, lifting your leg to help him slide it off completely. and he definitely doesn't stop you when your own hands start working on his belt, the metal clinking harshly with the rush.

it's all too messy, too clumsy. it's eight months of missing each other crashing into the present all at once. and when it finally tips over, when you fully give in and give him all of you, it's fast and intense and full of everything that was left unshared between you two. his hands go everywhere, gripping, guiding, almost too rough in the way as if he was terrified this would be the last time. yours were in his hair, tugging, anchoring, like you needed the reminder that he was real. eventually, the car grows hotter, the windows fogging over completely, the only sounds your shaky breaths, the creak of leather, the soft involuntary noises that jake doesn't even try to hold back anymore.

and when it's over, when the tension finally breaks and leaves you both trembling and shaking hard, jake doesn't find it in him to pull away. he just stays there, holding your body on his, arms wrapped around you like he can't bear the thought of putting space between you yet. his thumb strokes slow, soothing circles against your skin, like his body is still trying to comfort you even now.

he closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath against your neck, his hands now tremble slightly where they rest on you. and jake knows he should let go, knows that this is the part where he's supposed to pull away, fix his clothes, and pretend this didn't just happen. but his body is much slower than his brain, and for a few seconds he let himself stay there—let himself feel the weight of you against him, the way your forehead presses against his shoulder like it used to on sunday mornings when neither of you had anywhere to be. the way you'd wake up tangled in his sheets, steal his hoodie before he could even open his eyes, kiss his face stupid until he finally woke up. the way you used to fix his hair with your fingers after sex, the same way you did just now without thinking. some habits never learn how to die.

eventually, you shift with a quiet wince, and jake's hands move on instinct, steadying you at the waist as you lift yourself off him, the loss of contact hitting him harder than expected. once you move to the seat next to his, he reaches over the front seat with one arm, fumbling blindly until the glove compartment clicks open, pulling out the small pack of wipes he'd kept in there for so long now and that you two were all too familiar with. he doesn't even remember when he'd last replaced them. maybe he never took them out in the first place.

he tears one open without looking at you and hands it over. you take it without a word. he then grabs another for himself, wiping himself in quick, efficient movements before tossing it into the small trash bag he keeps hooked on the back of the passenger seat.

then, without thinking too hard about it, he reaches for the hem of your shirt that had ridden up and tugs it back down gently, smoothing it over your hips like it was the most natural thing in the world. you don't say anything about it. instead, your hands move on autopilot too—fixing the collar of his shirt where you pulled at it just a few minutes ago, brushing a piece of his hair back into place like muscle memory. it was too comfortable, familiar. the kind of quiet and ordinary tenderness that only existed between two people who had known each other too long and too deeply to pretend things were simple.

"you still keep the wipes in your car," you finally say quietly, breaking the silence.

jake lets out a small, breathy laugh through his nose, the kind that sounds more tired than amused. "yeah. guess i never got around to taking them out."

you didn't say anything to that, but your eyes soften for a moment, just long enough for him to catch it before you look away. he wonders if you're remembering the same things he is. like how he used to keep your favorite snacks in the same glove compartment. or how you used to leave hair ties and lip balm in here like this car was yours. the way he still hasn't cleaned it out completely even after the breakup, like some pathetic part deep within him had been waiting for nights like this.

you then reach over and gently fix another piece of his hair sticking up in the back, your touch soft, thoughtless. it makes something in the chest pull tight.

"still a mess," you murmur.

jake's mouth twitches. "you caused it."

you don't deny it. instead, you give him a small look before letting out a quiet sigh as you lean back against the seat, pulling your jeans back up in the cramped space. jake starts to help without saying anything, tugging the waistband up over your hips when your hands fumble, his fingers brushing against your stomach in the process. he tries not to think about how many times he's done this before. how many nights that ended with him helping you get dressed in this very same backseat, both of you laughing quietly in bliss like the rest of the world didn't exist.

this time, there was no laughing, just the quiet sound of zippers and fabric rustling and the heavier thing sitting between you that neither of you seemed ready to address. you were the first to speak again, voice even softer this time.

"this was a really bad idea."

jake leans his head back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling. his hand finds yours in the space between you without thinking, thumb brushing over your knuckles once before he catches himself.

"yeah," he lets out quietly. "i know."

and for a moment longer, neither of you move. jake lets himself sit in it, the weight of everything you both used to be and everything you weren't anymore. he thinks about the night he broke up with you, sitting on the floor with the plant on the window and the lights above. he thinks about how he'd been the one to say you both needed the space, and how you looked at him like you already knew this was going to hurt worse than either of you could admit.

he thinks about all the nights since then that he spent telling himself he was fine. he thinks about how he spent the last eight months convincing himself that breaking up with you was the mature choice. now jake is starting to think that was the worst part. because at the time, it did sound mature. it sounded selfless. it sounded like the kind of thing a person says when they are trying very hard to be very good.

i don't want to hold you back. i don't want us to lose ourselves in each other. i don't want to wake up one day and realize we stayed because leaving was too hard.

all very reasonable, mature sentences. all very responsible. but all absolutely devastating when translated into what jake really meant, which was:

i'm scared. i don't know who i am without you, and somehow i convinced myself that means loving you is the problem. and frankly, that sim jaeyun, intelligent in several areas but yet deeply stupid in one very specific department, had mistaken fear for wisdom.

and now here you are again, in his car, letting him fix your clothes like nothing changed, when, in fact, everything has.

"you're still gonna drive me home?" your voice cuts through the silence, the heaviness of what you both refuse to acknowledge sitting between you.

jake turns his head to look at you. your eyes meet in the dim light, and for a second he let himself really look at you—the tiredness in your face, the slight redness around your eyes, the way your lips were still a little swollen. he wonders if you could see the same things in him.

"yeah," he says, simple and honest. "of course i am."

you nod once, like that was enough for now.

jake then reaches over across your body and unlocks your side of the door, pushing it open for you, and he follows on his side, patting his palms against his pants like he's trying to steady himself before getting back in. the two of you move in silence, you sliding into the passenger seat and instinctively adjusting it to the exact position you always used to, him sitting up straighter as he turns the key in the ignition. he swipes his hand across the inside of the windshield, clearing just enough of the fog so he can see the road.

he doesn't ask if you want to go back inside first. he doesn't ask if you want to talk about what just happened. he just puts the car in drive and pulls away from the curb, one hand loosely holding the steering wheel, the other resting on the center console between you two.

it's quiet for most of the ride. no sound other then the soft blast of air conditioning and jake's indicator blinking every now and then. but somewhere along the ride, somewhere between the third red light and the turn onto your street, your hand found its way back to his on the center console, neither of you saying anything about it. jake just turned his palm up and let your fingers slide between his, squeezing once, like his muscle memory refused to erase itself no matter how hard he tried.

he let out a small breath when he felt your touch, keeping his eyes on the road but his mind staying stuck on the same loop it always did when it came to you.

he didn't know if letting you go had been the right thing.

he didn't know if he'd ever stop missing this.

you stay silent sitting beside him with your head leaning against the seat, eyes half-lidded, thumb brushing slowly against his hand, watching the road like you were somewhere else entirely.

jake looks over at you briefly, and he remembers all the times he's driven you home like this. how many nights ended up with you in his passenger seat, your hand resting on his thigh while you hummed along to whatever song was playing. how you used to fall asleep sometimes on longer drives, and he would turn the music down and drive slower just so he wouldn't have to wake you up. how he used to hate dropping you off at your place because it meant the night was over. but at least back then, there was always a tomorrow, always a next time. always a version of his life where tomorrow always existed with you in it. until one day, it just simply didn't.

jake swallows hard, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

when he finally pulls up in front of your building, he puts the car in park but doesn't turn the engine off right away. the low hum fills the space in the air, neither of you moving quite yet. you stare out the window for a second, then finally turn your head to look at him. your eyes were soft in a way that made jake's chest ache, that made him want to take back every word he ever said eight months ago and pretend that night never happened at all.

you look at him for a moment longer before your voice comes out low, almost careful.

"…do you want some water or something?"

and it's such a simple question. so casual, so normal, like you were asking him to come inside after a usual night out, not after he'd just hooked up with you in the backseat of his car while you both ignored the fact you've been broken up for nearly a year now.

jake knew what you were really asking. he also knew that he should say no. that he should say goodnight, drive away, and go home. he should be the one to put the distance between you, because the both of you were clearly too weak to do it when you were this close, and because he had been the one to draw the line eight months ago in the first place.

but he doesn't. he turns the car off.

by the time you unlock the front door to your apartment, jake moves on instinct, his body remembering the motions like instinct. you mumble something about using the bathroom, disappearing down the hall while jake kicks off his shoes and wanders into the kitchen before he even consciously decides to. he reaches into the cabinet to the left of the sink and pulls out two glasses all without thinking. he almost doesn't even notice how your kitchen sink faucet is still leaking—the exact same leak you used to complain about every week. the exact same leak he kept promising to fix, and the exact same leak he never actually fixed.

he turns the handle and waits exactly seven seconds to let the water run cold first, because he remembers your sink is slow like that and because he, unfortunately, also remembers you hate drinking room temperature water. the sound of the leaking faucet and the running water and the distant shuffle of you moving somewhere in the apartment feels too familiar and selfishly comforting in a way that makes his stomach twist. like maybe if he looked down at his phone, the date would say it was last year. that you were still together and he still belonged here.

by the time you return, jake's noticed too much around him. the same chipped mug you always used to make your objectively terrible morning coffee sitting by the sink. the same magnet on the fridge from that trip you took together last year. the same candle scent sitting on the counter. everything looked the same and yet somehow nothing was the same at all.

jake watches the way you lean against the counter next to him, the way you keep your eyes on the glass in your hands like it was safer than looking at him. he thinks about how many times he's stood in this exact spot while you made tea in the morning, or while you ranted about your day after work, or while you kissed him against the same counter because you couldn't wait until you made it to the bedroom.

you don't look at him when you finally break the silence. instead, your eyes stay fixed on the half-empty glass in your hands.

"it's late," you say quietly. a beat passes. "you probably shouldn't drive home right now."

and there it is, his out, his second chance. his opportunity to be the responsible one for once. because despite everything that's happened tonight, despite the alcohol and the tension and the backseat, there was still a chance to stop this before it became something neither of you could pretend wasn't happening. but of course, since we all know by now that jake doesn't know the difference between knowing something and then doing something about it, we all know what happens next.

"yeah," he says, his eyes trained on the leaking faucet for a second, watching the slow, steady familiar drip before they finally land back on you. "i probably shouldn't."

and then the rest of night kind of falls into place in the exact way that it really, really shouldn't, given your circumstances. jake just kind of finds his body moving on its own, the same way it always used to when the two of you headed to bed after a long night. he knew the path by heart by now—the way that one specific floorboard near your bedroom door creaks, the way the hallway feels narrower in the dark.

in your room, the small lamp on the nightstand is already on. jake remembers all too well the nights he would accidentally turn on the overhead light and how you'd immediately scold him because you had a thing against using the 'big light'. now, the warm glow just reminds him of the version of his life out there where he still belonged here, where walking into this room doesn't hurt as much as it does now. jake stands in the doorway for second, watching as you move toward your dresser and open the bottom drawer to pull out one of your sleep shirts. his eyes drift to the drawer beside it without meaning to, the one that used to be his.

he walks over quietly and opens it. a few of his old hoodies and shirt were still folded inside, exactly where he left them months ago and never bothered to ask for them back. one of them, the black one that you used to steal constantly, sits right on top, smelling more like your detergent than his own. he pulls it out without thinking too hard about what that meant.

you don't say anything when he changes into it, just turning your back slightly while you slip into your own shirt, like you were giving him space even though there was nothing left to hide between you.

when he turns around, you're already climbing into your side of the bed, not that it used to really matter anyways. by morning, you'd usually end up sprawled halfway across his side already. jakes stands there for second, heart pounding.

he knows this is stupid. he knows you both know it. but he walks around to his side of the bed anyways and slides under the covers like he's done a hundred times before. he settles onto his back for a moment, staring up at the ceiling before finally turning on his side to face you.

you're already facing him. and it just takes that one small look from you for him to move automatically. he reaches for you without thinking, and you meet him halfway—your leg sliding between his, your body pressing close like it needed this as much as he did. his arm wraps around your shoulder and his hand finds its way into your hair, the other one going around your waist and slipping just under the hem of your shirt. your face finds its way into the crook of his neck, and his chin rests on top of your head. everything about it feels so painfully normal that it hurt.

jake could feel your heartbeat against his chest, the way your breath is warm against the skin of his neck and the way it eventually evens out. but most of all, he could feel how perfectly you still fit against him, like the two of you had been put into this world as missing halves meant to find one another.

jake never really believed in soulmates before he met you. the entire concept always felt too neat, too convenient, like something people told themselves to make sense of why certain connections felt different. but one night, a night so similar to this one, where you were tucked into him and his hand was mindlessly going up and down your spine because it helped you sleep, a night that felt so far from now, he remembers something you had mumbled to him in the haze of being half asleep and in bliss.

"you know i'd choose you in every lifetime, right?"

and jake had gone still for a second, his fingers pausing between your shoulder blades. then he chuckled quietly, the sound low and fond and full of warmth.

"yeah?"

you then nodded lazily against his neck, a small, content sound slipping out of you. "mmhm."

and jake remembers exactly what he said next. every single time. he could still hear the way the words had left his mouth, so steady and so sure, like they were the easiest truth he'd ever spoken.

"good," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "because i'm never letting you go."

the memory sits too heavy in his chest, even now. but the worst part wasn't that he had lied. it wasn't even that he had let you go. the worst part was that it took losing you for jake to finally understand that maybe he did believe in soulmates after all.

not because the idea of soulmates was romantic or comforting, but because losing you felt like losing something fundamental. something that felt like losing a piece of himself he didn't know how to function without until after the fact. it took letting you go to realize that so much of who he had become wasn't separate from you at all. a large part of the person he grown into had been quietly shaped by loving you—by the way you softened him, challenged him, and made space for parts of himself he didn't know how to hold on his own. he didn't just lose you. he lost a part of him that only existed because of you in the first place.

jake barely slept. which, to be fair, would be asking a lot from him when your literal body stayed curled against his all night in a way he hasn't let himself remember in eight long months.

he wakes up before you, still tangled in your sheets, your leg thrown over his like it had been eight months ago, and ten months ago, and a year ago, and every ordinary morning before everything became something different. your face still stays buried in his chest like you barely moved an inch in your sleep, and for a few minutes jake just lies there, staring at your ceiling, and let himself have it. let himself press his nose into your hair and breathe you in. let himself trace the slow, barely there patterns on your back with his fingers. let himself remember how some time ago in the past he got used to this, to waking up with your hair in his mouth and leg thrown over his hip and the way you somehow took up too much of the bed despite being smaller than him and feel like the luckiest guy alive.

then jake reluctantly yet carefully untangles himself from you, kisses the top of your head while you're still half-asleep, and slips out before either of you have to say anything real.

walking out of your apartment and driving to his own felt like he was doing something wrong, so when he steps through his front door, and three pairs of eyes immediately land on him, he feels even worse.

heeseung is sprawled across the couch with a bowl of cereal balanced on his stomach. sunghoon sits at the kitchen island scrolling through his phone, and jay, who very much does not live here yet acts like he does, stands at the stove flipping something in a pan.

the apartment goes quiet for half a second. then, heeseung grins, slow and knowing.

"ah," the word drags out. "there he is."

jake freezes in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob. he's still wearing the same clothes he slept in, his hair's a mess, and he knew he probably smelled like your laundry detergent and something else he really didn't want to think about right now.

sunghoon doesn't even look up from his phone. "you were supposed to drive us home last night, asshole."

jay turns around with the spatula in hand, eyebrows raised. "yeah, what the hell, man? we had to uber. heeseung almost threw up in some guy's backseat."

jake rubs the back of his neck, trying to play it cool. "sorry," he mutters, kicking his shoes off by the door. "change of plans."

he then tries to walk past them to his room, but then heeseung suddenly sits up straighter, eyes narrowing at jake's figure.

"wait," he tilts his head, studying him. "you didn't come home last night."

jake keeps walking, eyes focused on his door and very much not on the other three pairs of eyes following him. "i stayed at the party longer."

"no you didn't," sunghoon says pointedly. "one, you hate parties, and two, we would've seen you."

jay's eyes dart slowly from jake to the guys then to the guys back to jake, still holding the spatula but not flipping anything anymore. then, as if everyone in the room put the pieces together with absolutely no other context needed, heeseung's face split into a wide, open gasp.

"oh my god," he says. "you slept with y/n, didn't you?"

jake freezes mid-step.

the apartment goes dead silent for two solid business seconds. then all three of them explode at once.

"i knew it!" heeseung shouts, pointing at him with his cereal spoon. "i fucking knew it the second you disappeared at the party last night."

sunghoon lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, "no way. you actually went home with her?"

and jay, still holding the spatula, just shakes his head slowly, but there's a small, knowing smile tugging at his mouth that somehow felt worse than heeseung's yelling. "dude."

jake turns around suddenly, face hot and burning and not at all helping his case. "okay, first of all, it could've literally been anyone else—"

"—okay well that's bullshit because you're, like, deeply so downbadly in love with y/n—" heeseung interrupts before jake shoots a pointed look at him.

"—and second of all," jake adds quickly, holding his hands up in defense, "it's not a big deal, okay? i literally just slept over. that's it."

the three of them stare back at him. the clear, very obvious kind of stare that says they don't believe a single word coming out of his mouth. then, with one eyebrow raised and his voice dry, sunghoon asks, "so you didn't hook up with her?"

jake opens his mouth. then closes it. and the three seconds of silence that follows pretty much tells them all they need to know.

heeseung's grin grows. "oh my god—"

"okay, fine," jake snaps, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "yes. we hooked up in the car. happy now?"

the apartment erupts again all at once. jay actually drops the spatula this time, heeseung lets outs a loud, delighted whoop and falls back against the couch, completely disregarding his cereal nearly spilling, and sunghoon just stares at jake with that specific look on his face that says he's watching a disaster happen in real time.

jake groans and drags a hand down his face. "you guys aren't supposed to know. and you definitely can't make it weird. please."

"make it weird?" heeseung repeats, sitting back up. "bro, you slept with your ex, who is, mind you, our friend, in your car after you broke up with her and then went home with her. it's already weird."

jay picks the spatula back up, but still watches jake carefully, "so…are you guys getting back together or what?"

jake's stomach twists. it twists violently and harshly and most of all, confusingly because he didn't know. he didn't have an answer. he didn't even know what he wanted the answer to be. the best way he could describe it is like standing in the middle of a road with no idea which direction he was supposed to go, or even worse, which direction he even wanted in the first place.

"i don't know," he admits quietly, dropping his hands helplessly. "neither of us tried to talk about it, i don't…i just don't know."

there's a brief moment of silence shared for another moment. heeseung exchanges a look with sunghoon. jay turns the stove off completely and leans back against the counter, arms crossed.

"you know this is gonna blow up in your face, right?" sunghoon says, not unkindly. just in that honest way friends do when they're genuinely concerned and know both of the parties involved too well to ignore the inevitable outcome. "you can't just do that and expect it to not hurt both of you."

and jake knew that. he knew it last night when he came over to you talking to jungwon. he knew it when he followed you out of the party and into the backseat of his car. he knew it when he woke up in your bed this morning and he knew it now.

but unfortunately for him, the truth is a little harder to face when all jake can remember is how you looked last night when you were asleep in his arms and your hand stayed holding the front of his hoodie like you didn't want him to leave, or how you had given him that quiet, knowing look in the kitchen when you asked if he wanted to stay over, like you already knew he would say yes.

he kept replaying those moments. the softness in your voice, the way you didn't pull away when he reached for you. the way it felt so easy to fall back into something that you both knew was supposed to be over.

and the cruel thing about the universe, jake was actively learning, was that it rarely cared about what he needed. and he wasn't asking for much, really. just some time or space to sit with what happened last night and figure out why he was still carrying pieces of you with him when he had been the one to walk away. he just needed a moment to sort through the mess in his chest—the guilt, the want, the quiet confusion of still reaching for someone he's supposed to have let go of, especially before having to see you again.

so yeah. he would've liked maybe at least a full business day, if anything. just one.

the universe did not give him a day.

and jake learns that the hard way later that night. because, instead, the universe gives him game night.

now, game night is one of those things that has always existed in the friend group, one of those little traditions that started so casually no one actually remembers who started it. it predates you and jake. predates the relationship. predates the breakup.

back then, game night looked a little different.

sometimes it was mario kart in heeseung's, sunghoon's, and jake's shared apartment with three controllers that worked and one that drifted aggressively to the left. sometimes it was monopoly, which eventually got permanently banned after jay accused sunghoon of cheating and refused to speak to him for forty seven minutes. sometimes it was card games, board games, drinking games, stupid phone games, or even just watching a movie because everyone was too tired to commit to anything that involved actual thinking.

but the point was never really the game. the point was the showing up, the collapsing onto the couch, the passing around the take-out boxes, the arguing over rules no body fully understood. the same five people ending up in the same room again and again because somewhere along the way, routine had started to feel like family. and for a while, game night had been one of jake's favorite things for reasons he never admitted, mostly because admitting them would mean admitting how much of it had always been about you.

game night was one of the first nights jake saw you differently. it was one of those nights that came and went and really meant absolutely nothing in the moment until suddenly jake was sitting there thinking about the way you laughed and then he realized that nothing was actually the beginning of everything.

it was before your first kiss, before the late-night calls, before the car rides. before your toothbrush lived by his sink and his hoodies found their way into that one specific drawer in your room on their own.

back then, you were just you. someone in the friend group, someone jay met in lecture one day and started bringing around to the lunch table. someone who started showing up to game night with snacks nobody asked for but everyone ate anyway. someone who got weirdly competitive over games you swore you didn't care about, which was funny because you absolutely did care and jake absolutely knew it.

and one night, somehow and somewhere in that stretch of time, it ended up being just you and jake on the couch. you were sitting on the opposite end with your knees pulled up under a blanket, picking through a bag of jolly ranchers and making a face every time you found a blue raspberry one, which apparently you had very strong feelings against.

"blue raspberry is too blue," you had said, looking at jake with a completely serious expression on your face.

jake remembered laughing because, at the time, he thought that was just a ridiculous thing to say. then he remembered watching you hand him every blue raspberry jolly rancher after that without even thinking about it.

and jake thinks he's pretty good at noticing people. he notices when jay gets quiet before admitting he was stressed. notices when heeseung pretended not to care about something he very obviously cared about. notices when sunghoon was hungry because he got meaner in a very specific, low effort way.

but you noticed things too. the smaller and hidden things, the things most people missed because they were too busy waiting for their turn to talk. you noticed that he always picked the blue controller if nobody else took it first. noticed that he drank the last sip of soda even when it went flat because he hated wasting things. noticed he laughed louder when he was tired, like he had to try a little harder to make up for his social battery giving up.

and then, you noticed that jake almost always only ate the blue raspberry jolly ranchers.

that night, sometime around two in the morning, when jay had already left and heeseung and sunghoon went into their rooms, you had looked over at him and said, "you're quieter than people think."

and jake had just blinked, because that was not the kind of sentence people usually say to him. people usually told him he was funny, charming, easy to talk to. occasionally annoying, depending on whether if jay just lost a game of mario kart to him.

"am i?" he asked, trying to sound casual about it.

you then shrugged, picking another blue raspberry jolly rancher out of the bag and sliding it across the couch to him. "yeah. not in a bad way. i feel like you just observe more than you talk sometimes."

"that's creepy."

"it's only creepy if you're bad at it."

"am i bad at it?"

you looked at him then, going quiet for a moment, with this small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

"no," you said. "i think you're actually kind of good."

and jake, who had done a pretty decent job of being a pretty normal human being around you up until that point, suddenly forgot how. because at some point in the middle of that night, between the abandoned games, the jolly ranchers, and a conversation that somehow became about everything and nothing all at once, jake had the same, one persistent thought sitting in the back of his mind: he wanted to know you better.

and not just the version of you everyone knew. he wanted the small things you noticed that he didn't. the things you didn't think were interesting enough to tell people. your worst habit. your favorite childhood movie. the song you played whenever you were sad but didn't want to admit that you were sad. what you looked like first thing in the morning, which, at the time, was a wildly inappropriate and unearned thought considering he had strictly just been your friend for about a year by then.

tonight, however, game night looks like heeseung and sunghoon yelling at a basketball video game, jay sitting on the couch with half a takeout container balancing on his knee while offering extremely aggressive coaching no one asked for, and jake holding a controller he stopped meaningfully using about fifteen minutes ago.

"pass, pass, pass—are you actually blind?" jay snaps, leaning forward on the couch.

"i know how to play," heeseung says, immediately running his player directly into sunghoon's.

sunghoon doesn't even blink, "do you?"

and jake, meanwhile, is kind of just…there. physically present, yes, but mentally and most definitely emotionally, somewhere stuck between the events that took place in between his backseat and then waking up in your bed this morning. his thumbs move over the controller on autopilot, his character doing something clearly unhelpful and sunghoon swears under his breath.

"jake," sunghoon deadpans without looking away from the screen, "are you even playing or having some religious experience right now?"

jake gives him a look. "i'm playing."

"you're standing out of bounds."

jake looks at the screen. and he is, indeed, standing out of bounds.

"whatever," he mutters.

jay then gives him a sideways look, the kind of look that says i know exactly what your problem is and i am choosing not to say it out loud yet, which is somehow worse than if he had just said it. and then heeseung, because he's heeseung and therefore constitutionally incapable of letting anything breathe, glances over with a knowing look.

"you're doing it again," he drags the words out before looking back at the screen. "you're thinking about it."

jake's grip tightens around the controller. "i'm not."

"mm."

"don't do that."

"do what?"

"that."

heeseung's brow lifts. "i literally just said mm."

"you said it weird," jake says pointedly.

"well maybe you're hearing it weird because you're feeling guilty."

jake opens his mouth, already prepared to say something defensive, when the front door swings open.

"i swear to god," you announce, stepping inside with a plastic container of cookies tucked under your arm, "if someone ate the leftovers i left here last time, i'm fighting someone—"

you stop mid-sentence. because once you kick the door shut behind you, the whole room does that horrible, subtle thing rooms do when everyone knows something they're not supposed to and try very hard to act like they don't.

you stare back at the four pairs of eyes on you all at once, and not one of them is doing a particularly convincing job of looking normal. your gaze flicks across the room before finally landing on jake. you stare at him for another long second and then all at once, jake sees your expression shift in real time—from confusion, to understanding, to something much, much sharper.

"are you serious right now?" you let out a disbelieving laugh but terrifying enough, with no humor in it. heeseung and sunghoon suddenly become very interested in the paused game on the tv and jay, meanwhile, looks down at his phone like the conversation about to take place is absolutely none of his business.

"you told them?" you ask, eyes still fixed on jake, brows furrowed. "i thought we weren't going to make this a thing."

jake winces. "i know, i know. i'm sorry. they were just—they asked and it just…slipped out."

"slipped out," you repeated flatly, clearly unimpressed.

heeseung is the first to crack, letting out a small snort before immediately, and unsuccessfully, failing to cover it with a cough, "in his defense, he did try to lie at first. it was actually kind of impressive how bad he was at it."

"shut up," jake mutters, face burning now.

you drag a hand down your face, then fully step into the living room, looking between all of them. "okay, fine," you say finally, letting out a long sigh. "yes. jake and i hooked up last night."

the room goes painfully, awkwardly silent.

"that's it. end of story." you point towards the tv, then cross the room and drop into the empty spot beside jake like it was nothing. "and we're not going to be weird about it so unpause the game before i regret coming over."

and just like that, game night continues.

well, continues is a generous way to put it. it moreso limps forward with the very, very fragile determination of a group of people pretending to ignore what just happened. heeseung misses two open shots because he keeps glancing at you and jake sitting next to each other like he's afraid something might happen if he looks away for too long. sunghoon tells jake to lock in, even though he himself has clearly given up on focusing on the game. and jay keeps pretending he isn't very obviously tracking the situation out of the corner of his eye, because jay has always had the subtlety of a man pretending not to eavesdrop while standing directly outside a closed glass door.

meanwhile, jake…jake is doing his best. which historically has not always meant good things. but it's not particularly easy when the one person you're actively trying to move on from is still right next to you and the gap between your thigh and theirs is getting increasingly smaller and smaller with each sudden and small movement.

at some point much later in the night, sometime between jay suggesting they switch games and sunghoon nearly falling asleep on the floor against the couch, you stand, heading for the kitchen, "gonna get some water."

jake lasts maybe twelve seconds. because then he sets his controller down and stands too.

"i'm gonna—" he starts before realizing there is not a single convincing end to that sentence.

all three of them look up at him.

jake points vaguely to the kitchen. "…water."

 "right," jay says, already shaking his head as he goes back to flip through the game options.

"very important," heeseung adds with amusement in his tone and jake takes that as a sign to leave before anyone can make it worse.

you're standing near the fridge when he enters, holding your glass under the dispenser. you don't look at him right away.

"very subtle," you say.

jake stops a few feet behind you. "what?"

"that," you nod towards the living room. "that was literally, like, twelve seconds after i got up."

jake opens his mouth then closes it. then tries again. "i wanted water."

you finally turn around then, leaning back against the counter, glass in hand.

"you have never once voluntarily wanted water in your life, jake. you're chronically dehydrated."

and that is fair. annoying, but fair, given he can't exactly argue against the only person in the world, other than his mom, who has ever taken it upon themselves to remind him that he needed to drink more water on a daily basis.

"i'm not—," jake starts, then stops. he takes a small breath before he continues.

"i just…" he rubs a hand over the back of his neck and hesitates, glancing back toward the living room to make sure no one was paying attention. "i'm sorry. for leaving this morning without saying anything."

and you just go still. for a second, you just look at him, like you're actively trying to figure out what he wanted from this conversation. the fridge hums quietly beside you and from the living room, heeseung yells something at the tv, but it all sounds far away now. then you set your glass down and cross your arms over your chest.

"there's nothing to be sorry about, jake," you say, quietly but steady. "you don't owe me anything. it was a one time thing and we both knew that."

and there it is. clean, controlled, and merciful, maybe, given jake thinks he has plenty to be sorry about.

"right," jake says, and it comes out wrong, the kind of right where actually nothing feels right at all and too much is on his mind.

you sense it immediately. "jake."

"no, yeah. i know." he nods, looking down at the floor because looking at you right now felt too much like that night eight months ago. "one time thing."

you push off the counter and take a small step towards him, and jake tries his best to breathe normally with how much the distance closed in just that one step.

you stop in front of him. "i mean it," your voice is softer now. "i'm not mad."

"you looked mad."

"because you told them."

"technically, they guessed."

"yun."

"right. sorry."

the corner of your mouth twitches like you don't want to smile and hate that he almost made you. then your hand lifts, and it's slow enough that jake has the time to move away if he wants to, but of course because he's jake, he doesn't.

your fingers then wrap gently around his wrist, thumb brushing once over the inside of it in a small, absent motion that feels so painfully familiar he almost has to close his eyes.

"we're okay," you say, and your voice is now so gentle that it's almost too soft for the way you're trying to make this casual. "okay?"

jake looks down at your hand around his wrist. the way it's too casual, too warm, and how his pulse is probably hammering beneath your thumb, and he knows you can feel it because your gaze drops too. for another long second, neither of you say anything else. then, your thumb moves again, in that small, comforting stroke that breaks him just a little more. because you say things like we're okay and one time thing and then touch him like you never forgot how to comfort him when he needed it the most.

jake swallows. "yeah," he nods, even though he knows it's a lie. "okay."

you hold his gaze for another moment, then give his wrist one last gentle squeeze before letting go.

"good," you murmur, then jake watches you walk back into the living room and join the game like nothing had just happened.

by the time the night finally starts to wind down, jay is the first to leave, muttering something about having an early morning and heeseung disappears into his room shortly after, clearly already half asleep. sunghoon lingers just long enough to give jake one long, dry, and pointed look before saying goodnight to you and disappearing down the hall too.

"okay," you say mostly to yourself. "i'm gonna head out."

jake looks up too fast, which is embarrassing and he knows it so he tries to play it off by standing, but even that feels suspiciously urgent, so now he's just a guy standing in the middle of his living room for no reason.

"it's late," he suddenly blurts out with no logic or plan behind it. you pause with your keys already in your hand. then slowly, you look up at him and jake can tell immediately from your face you know exactly where this is going.

you lift a brow. "if you're about to tell me to stay over, i'm going to laugh in your face," you say with a small smile tugging at your lips. "we both know how that ended last time."

he doesn't argue right away. because, yes, last time was literally only twenty four hours ago and it ended up with him falling asleep holding you in your own bed, his entire dignity in shambles, and then waking up with the horrible realization that sometimes, some mistakes do not feel like mistakes while they're happening.

this is one of those times.

he just shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and walks over slowly, stopping just a few feet away from you.

"i know," he says quietly. and your expression shifts just a little at the sound of it. "but just stay," he adds, and the please is already there in his expression before he says it. "please."

you give him a certain look after, and jake hates that he knows that look. hates that he can read it before you can even say anything. because it's the same look you always get when you know he's asking for something he shouldn't, and you know you probably shouldn't give it to him, and somehow both of you already know how this is going to end.

he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair like that might somehow make this sound less like begging. "you can take the couch," he says quickly. "nothing weird. i promise."

your mouth twitches. "you promising nothing weird is not as reassuring as you think it is."

"yeah, that's fair."

"you are, honestly, historically awful at nothing weird."

jake just blinks.

"like impressively bad."

"okay, are we done?"

"i don't know, i'm kind of enjoying myself," and now you're actually smiling and jake huffs out a small laugh, the sound slipping out tired and fond.

"i just don't want you driving this late," he says, voice dropping down lower as he looks at you. "that's all."

and technically, he isn't lying. he doesn't want you driving this late. he also doesn't want you walking out the door yet. both things can be true.

you look down at your keys, thumb brushing over the small metal keychain hanging from the ring. it's the one he bought you forever ago from some random gas station during a road trip because you said it was ugly in a way that made you want it. he hates that he remembers that and he hates that it's still there and he hates that he's wondering what that meant.

then you let out a quiet sigh, and drop your keys back into your bag and set your bag down on the table next to the door.

"fine."

the relief hits him embarrassingly fast. "yeah?"

"yeah," you say, walking back into the living room and giving the couch a small pat as you sit back down. "couch it is."

jake presses his lips together, trying and failing to force his face into something neutral as he stops near the hall, "i'll grab you something to change into."

and jake didn't really fully have a solid plan when he says it, he just says it because that's what you do when your ex is about to sleep on your couch and you don't want her falling asleep uncomfortably in jeans. because technically, yes, there's probably other clothes in the apartment. heeseung's and sunghoon's maybe, if jake suddenly developed a sense of humor strong enough for that. he has not. the thought alone of giving you someone else's shirt makes something ugly and childish twist in his stomach, which is exactly the kind of thing he will be taking to the grave.

so he settles on grabbing one of his own hoodies from the back of his closet, an oversized one that already hangs too big on him, which, by your logic, makes it perfect for you. he remembers you telling him that once, standing in front of his mirror with the sleeves covering half your hands like your word was his new law.

if it's too big on you, it's mine. if it fits you, it's also mine.

and jake didn't argue against that because it was you, so naturally, he automatically doesn't need any other excuse.

when he returns to the living room, hoodie in hand, you take it without a word, but your eyes linger on it half a second longer than necessary, and jakes knows you're thinking the same thing he is. because most of the time, in normal situations, clothes are just clothes. this one isn't.

you disappear down the hall and jake stands there for a second after the bathroom door clicks shut, staring at the empty space you just left behind like a person who has learned absolutely nothing from the last twenty-four hours. then he exhales, and turns toward his room.

jake does not sleep well. actually, he doesn't sleep at all, for that matter. he spends the first twenty minutes lying on his back, scrolling through his phone, then putting his phone down, staring at the ceiling, then going back on this phone. he's trying very, very hard to be normal about this. he turns onto his side. then his other side. then his back again. at some point, he flips his pillow over like the cooler side of it might do the trick. it does not.

he can hear the faint hum of the air conditioner, the occasional honk of a car outside, the neighbor's footsteps from upstairs. and he can especially hear the sounds coming from the living room. there's the soft rustle of the blanket, the tiny creak of the couch when you shift, the barely there noises of you trying to get comfortable somewhere you clearly do not belong.

and jake knows. he knows the couch is fine. objectively, it's a perfectly acceptable couch. people have slept on it before. sunghoon once took a four hour nap on it after claiming he was only resting his eyes, which was a lie because no one rests their eyes with a blanket pulled over their head and ends up snoring twenty minutes in.

so jake knows the couch is not the problem, but you. the problem is that jake knows exactly how you sleep. he knows you hate being cold but will kick the blanket off an hour into sleeping anyways. knows you always sleep better on your side. knows that if you're not comfortable, you'll pretend you are anyways because you hate making things inconvenient.

and suddenly, the thought of you lying out there on his couch, in his hoodie, trying to sleep like anything from this arrangement makes sense, feels so stupid he physically can't stand it.

the hallway is dark when he steps out of his room, the living room only lit by the small light glowing from your phone, held loosely in your hand as you're curled on your side, one arm tucked under your head.

your eyes lift when you see him.

"can't sleep?" you ask quietly.

jake leans one shoulder against the wall, hands already in the pockets of his sweat pants. "no."

you exhale through your nose, "me neither."

jake looks at you for a second, at the way his hoodie slips off one shoulder, at the bare skin of your legs folded beneath you, and something in his chest pulls a little tighter.

"this is dumb," he eventually says. "you're not sleeping out here."

"jake—"

"come here," he exhales, cutting you off. it wasn't demanding, it wasn't loud, just something sure and a little tired, like he's already given in to whatever this is. he rubs a hand over his face before looking back at you. "just…come sleep in my room. the bed's bigger anyways."

your expression softens, and for a moment, jake sees the same quiet resignation in your eyes that he feels settling in his own chest. then you sigh, set your phone on the coffee table, and push yourself up from the couch. "okay."

jake doesn't say anything else, just turns and walks back down the hall into his room. you follow him a few seconds later, stopping in the doorway for a moment, one hand still on the handle like you were deciding whether to step inside.

it felt strange—walking into a room that used to feel like yours. the same plant sat on his windowsill, somehow still miraculously alive. the same string lights hang across the wall, though more bulbs have gone out since the last time you'd been here. his bed was unmade, sheets crinkled from where he'd been tossing and turning.

and then there was jake. sitting on the edge of his bed, looking warm and comfortable and hair messy and eyes sleepy and like everything you missed.

this time, when you look at him, there's something different. like seeing you walk in here and close the door behind you and stand there with his hoodie swallowing your figure shifted something in the air. jake's gaze stayed on you, heavier now, thicker and in a way that made it very, very clear that you both knew exactly why you were in here.

you walk over slowly until you're standing right in front of him, close enough that if you took one small step forward, you'd be in between his knees, close enough that if either of you leaned in even slightly, it would turn into something else entirely.

jake looks up at you. your hands move first, resting lightly on his shoulders, like you're still testing whether you're allowed to touch him. his hands answer before his brain does, moving up to settle on the back of your thighs beneath the hem of the hoodie, his palms large and warm against your skin.

your gaze drops to his hands before going back up to his face. "so much for not making it weird," you whisper quietly.

jake lets out a small breath that almost becomes a laugh. his thumbs start moving up and down on their own, and your breath hitches immediately. "you were out there sleeping in my clothes," he murmurs. "it was already weird."

your mouth twitches into a small smile, your fingers shifting against his shoulders, sliding slightly towards the back of his neck, and jake has to look down for a second and take a breath because there's only so many things a person can survive at once.

"plus," he adds, "you let me sleep in your bed last night. i'd be kind of a jerk to make you sleep on the couch."

he then spreads his knees slightly and tugs you just an inch closer, and you let him, stepping into the already small space between the two of you in between his legs. you look down at him, eyes soft but guarded.

"we said it was a one time thing," you murmur softly.

jake's thumbs kept moving in that slow, comforting motion, and you feel his grip tighten just slightly, like he was afraid you would step back.

"well," he says, voice low and a little rough, "technically we didn't break that yet."

jake knew what he was doing. he knew that you knew it too. that he was toeing the line, that he was giving in, and the dangerous part was that you weren't stopping him. you weren't stepping back. you were still standing there, letting him touch you, letting the space between you disappear like some unspoken part of you has been waiting for this as much as he has.

his eyes drag over you slowly, the way you look small in his hoodie, the way it fell just past the middle of your thighs. something flickered across his face, something raw and dark and a lot like he was trying very hard not to feel what he was feeling.

"this is still a bad idea," and you try to sound steady, but your voice cracks at the end.

"i know," jake answers, hands sliding a little higher up the back of your thighs. "i know it is."

he gently tugs you forward, slow, careful like he was giving you every chance to stop him, eyes watching your expression the entire time. your knees bump against the edge of the bed as he guides you closer, until you're standing right against him. then his hands move up higher and settle on your waist, and with one gentle pull, he brings you down into his lap.

you go willingly, a small sound escaping you as your knees settle on either side of his hips, your hands find his shoulders and grip them tighter, like you were trying to ground yourself. neither of you speak for a moment, the silence stretching and growing heavier with every slow second that passes between you.

jake's eyes drop to your mouth, then flick back up to meet yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

"tell me to stop."

you don't. instead, you lean in first.

the second your lips touch his, jake feels something inside him give way, like a silent, inevitable unraveling.

he knew he shouldn't be doing this, knew this was exactly what you both said you wouldn't do. but the moment your hand slides into his hair, he stops thinking altogether. he kisses you back like he was trying to be careful, trying to keep it soft, but the second you sigh against his mouth, the cautious thing inside him cracks open, and his hands are already sliding higher, pulling you closer like his body had been waiting for permission.

he missed the way you used to kiss him like this, like you still knew exactly how he liked it. he missed the way your body fit against his, the quiet and familiar weight of you in his lap, the way your fingers always found their way into his hair. and the longer it goes on, the less jake can pretend he's trying to be careful.

he suddenly deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding slowly against yours that makes you tug slightly at his hair. his hands slide down to grip the back of your thighs as he lifts you with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively before he turns and lowers you onto the bed without breaking the kiss. you let out a small giggle against his lips at the sudden movement, and he smiles into the kiss before settling between your legs, the mattress dipping beneath your weight as he follows you down. his hips roll down against yours on instinct, and the friction pulls a small gasp from your breath.

jake pulls back just enough to look at you, both of you catching your breath. your eyes were dark, lips swollen, the hoodie bunched up around your waist. his hand moves again, sliding higher until his palm covered your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in light, teasing strokes, making you arch into his touch with a soft, desperate sound that goes straight to his core. he breaks the kiss to press his forehead against yours. 

"missed you," he admits, the words slipping out before he can stop them. "missed the way you sound when i—" his thumb circles again, slower this time, and the way you shiver under his hand makes something hot and helpless twist in his stomach. "fuck. so sensitive still."

your hands slide down from his hair to his shoulders, gripping him like you needed something to hold on to. "more," you whisper against his lips, your hips rolling up to meet him in that needy way he always loved. his hand leaves your breast and slides down your stomach, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of your underwear, pausing there, breathing hard, giving you one last chance to stop him.

you look down at where his hand sits, then back up at him, and your hand then comes up to cover his, gently pushing it lower. jake lets out a shaky exhale against your neck as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding you already warm and wet. he groans quietly, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"fuck, baby…" the pet name slips out before he can catch it. his fingers move instantly but carefully, like he's savoring every reaction coming out of you. two fingers slide through your folds, gathering the wetness there before he slowly pushes them inside you, curling them upward in a slow, firm stroke that made your walls flutter around him. the wet sound of it is obscene in the quiet room, and jake groans at how easily you take him. "you're already—shit. you feel so good."

you let out a small moan, hips shifting against his hand. one of your hands fisted in his shirt while the other stayed in his hair, tugging slightly every time his fingers found the right spot inside you again.

jake lifts his head to look at you again, eyes dark, pupils blown wide as he watches you, his fingers still moving inside you, curling on every pull back, thumb pressing circles on your clit at the same time.

"you're so fucking pretty like this," his voice comes out hoarse, his breathing getting heavier. he kisses you harder this time, swallowing the moan that escapes you as he worked his fingers faster, his own hips rocking against your thigh now, seeking friction. when he pulls back, his eyes stay on yours.

"wanna taste you," he says quietly. it wasn't a question, but there was something almost hesitant in his voice, like he was asking for permission to cross another line. you then nod, eyes half-lidded and dark and trusting, and that was all jake needed.

he moves down your body slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your jaw then your throat then your stomach as he pushes the hoodie up higher. his hands slide under your thighs, gently spreading you open as he settles between your legs. then he looks up at you for a moment, his voice low and sincere, "tell me if you want me to stop, okay?"

you just nod, already breathless as you tug his head closer. 

the first drag of his tongue over you is agonizingly slow, your back arching hard off the bed as a broken whimper tears from your throat before you can catch it. jake groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core like he’d been waiting for that sound.

"fuck," he breathed, voice muffled. "always taste so good."

your eyes roll back as he starts taking his time. long, unhurried licks that make your thighs start to tremble, gentle sucks that pull desperate little sounds from your throat. every so often he glances up, watching your face like he wanted to memorize every reaction. one of his hands stayed firm on your thigh, holding you open while the other slid up to rest over your stomach, grounding you there.

"you're being so quiet," he murmurs between his strokes that were getting quicker and quicker. "you used to be louder for me."

you gasp right as you feel his tongue dip right into you, "jaeyun—"

"there we go," he whispers, almost to himself. he slides two fingers back inside you, curling in that same way that made your vision blur while his tongue circles your clit again. "say it again."

your voice cracks on his name, hips jerking, "jaeyun—fuck—"

jake groans again, the sound going through you as he works you harder, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth. he pulls back just enough to look at you again, lips shiny.

"god, love it when you say it like that," he admits, eyes glassy. "like i'm still yours."

you look down at him, chest heaving, "you're not supposed to—fuck—not supposed to say shit like that."

"yeah," he breathes, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "i know."

jake doesn't stop though, still keeping his mouth on you, still sliding his fingers deep inside you until your legs were shaking and until you were getting louder. not that jake minded, if anything, it made him more determined, like every sound you made was something he wanted to earn.

when he finally pulls away, his mouth is wet and eyes wild as he goes back up and kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. one of his hands stays between your legs, still moving slowly inside you.

"need to feel you, yun," your voice strained now against his mouth. "please."

you're already reaching for the waistband of his sweats when he answers, "yeah. yeah, okay."

jake helps you shove his pants down just enough, then pauses, breathing uneven as he looks down at you. one hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing gently over your bottom lip. "look at me."

your eyes lift up to meet his and for a moment, jake forgets everything else. forgets the circumstances, forgets the careful distance he's supposed to be keeping. in that exact second, jake forgets that this isn't supposed to mean anything, that you weren't his anymore. none of it existed in the space between your bodies, all he can feel is the way you're looking at him, open, vulnerable, and so painfully familiar.

his eyes stay locked on yours as he lines himself up and pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully buried inside you. the stretch makes your mouth drop open slightly, and jake has to stop and stay there for a second, like he needed a moment to feel it. 

"fuck," he groans, forehead dropping to yours, eyes squeezing shut like he was trying to keep it together. "you feel so good. so fucking good, baby."

jake starts thrusting deeper, slower at first—long, deliberate strokes that make you feel every inch of him, his hips rolling forward until the slick sound kept growing louder with every movement. one hand stays wrapped around your jaw while the other grips your thigh around his waist, pushing it higher and wider as he fucks into you with steady, heavy rolls of his hips.

"missed this," he murmurs between thrusts, the words low and honest. "missed the way you look at me when i’m inside you like this."

your hands then slide under his shirt, nails dragging lightly down his back as you meet his every thrust.

"yun—" your voice cracks again, more breathless now. "harder. please."

he lets out another low groan like he’d been waiting for permission this entire time. he shifts his weight and snaps his hips harder on the next thrust, going a little faster, a little rougher. the new force pulls a sharp sound from you. 

“yeah?” he pants, eyes locked on you. "like that?"

you nod quickly, eyes squeezing shut as your fingers dig harder into his back. “more, yun, please—” 

that was all it took. he gives it to you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks, fucking into you properly now, hips driving into you with deep, forceful thrusts that make the bed creak loudly beneath you. the wet, filthy sound of skin meeting skin fills the room with every thrust, each snap of his hips sharper, rougher, like he was finally letting himself take what he’d been aching for all night. every thrust, every time he bottoms out, knocks another helpless whimper out of you, and jake drinks it in like it's his air. his hands tighten where they hold you, fingers pressing into your skin as he kept you exactly where he wanted you, fucking into you harder, faster, the rhythm turning relentless, like he was trying to fuck the memory of the last eight months out of both of you.

"you're so beautiful," he breathes out, the words coming out like muscle memory, his mouth curving into a small smile against yours. "especially when you're trying to stay quiet."

you let out a shaky laugh that turns into a moan right when he hits that spot inside you just right. you can feel the shift in him, the way his control starts to slip as his thrusts grow faster, rougher, the bed frame now hitting the wall in a steady rhythm. he shifts slightly, changing the angle, and you can’t stop the sounds suddenly slipping out of your mouth. 

"there it is," he pants against your month. "right there, baby. let me hear you." 

you moan again, louder this time, and jake's rhythm stutters for a second. 

"fuck—yeah, keep making those sounds," he murmurs. "not gonna last if you keep doing that."

you arch up into him even more, your back curving off the bed as you chase the new angle, the shift making him sink even deeper, the stretch and pressure pulling a choked moan from your throat. your hands slide up the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair as you pull him down into a desperate kiss, all tongue and heavy breaths, the low sound he makes against your mouth vibrating straight through you. 

"hate how good you feel," you breathe against his mouth, the words coming out strained. 

jake lets out a breathless laugh, retaliating by thrusting into you with more purpose. "yeah?" he mumbles, voice rough. "then why are you squeezing me so tight?"

one of his hands move to pin yours down next to your head, fingers threading with yours. "come on," he whispers, eyes never leaving yours. "wanna feel you come. let me feel it."

you were so close, jake could feel it in the way you clenched around him, in the sharp, stuttering rhythm of your breath against his neck, in how your thighs start to shake where they stayed locked around his waist. he feels your walls flutter again and his hand immediately slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing faster, tighter circles as he kept the same deep, relentless angle. 

"yun—" your eyes squeeze shut and your free hand grabs onto his shoulder, your jaw falling open, the words stumbling out on their own. "i'm—keep going, i'm gonna—"

"that's it," his voice muffled against the side of your neck. "let go, baby. i've got you."

your back arches hard as it hits you, a moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, your walls clamping down around him in tight, pulsing waves. 

"fuck—fuck—yun," the words spill out of you in a rush, half a moan and a sob all a once as your free hand flies to his shoulder, nails digging in until jake could feel every tremor running through you. jake groans loudly at the feeling of you clenching around him, his rhythm now faltering in a way he can't recover from.

"shit—fuck, that's it," his voice wrecked as his hips keep thrusting you through your orgasm, chasing his own release now, hips stuttering as he loses the last of his control. "just like that." his forehead then drops back against yours, his eyes shut, short gasps spilling from his mouth. "fuck—fuck, baby—gonna come—tell me it's okay, please—"

“do it,” you manage to gasp, body still shaking underneath him as your legs pull him in even more. “please—i want it—”

jake buries his face in your neck with a low, wrecked sound as he finally comes, hips jerking as you feel the hot spill of him deep inside you. his whole body tenses above you, the noises leaving him raw and desperate and just purely him.

"fuck—baby—" his voice is muffled against your neck. "oh my god—" he keeps moving through it, his thrusts getting shallower and shallower through out both your highs, until he finally stilled, breathing hard against your skin.

for a long moment, neither of you move. jake stays buried inside you, chest heaving, one hand gently stroking slow and soothing lines down your thigh now while the other stays tangled with yours beside your head. his lips press soft, shaky kisses against your neck as he tries to catch his breath, and yours stay in his hair, lightly scratching his scalp the way you knew he liked. 

eventually, jake lifts his head just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, a little overwhelmed and a little dazed, like he still hasn't fully come back to himself yet. the sharp loss of contact draws involuntary sounds from the both of you as he shifts carefully onto his side, automatically reaching for you as he went. his arm slides under your neck as he gently pulls you into his chest, drawing you in until your body presses flush against his.

the room falls quiet except for the sound of your breathing slowly settling and the faint rustle of sheets as he adjusts his hold on you, tucking you closer into him. his fingers trace slow, absent patterns along your spine, his touch careful and tender. it all felt too easy, too natural, like slipping back into something that was never supposed to become a habit again.

"yun…" you break the quiet first, your voice low against his chest. he hums softly in response, hand still moving along your back. you swallow, fingers curling slightly into the front of his hoodie. "i'm serious. this was the last time."

jake's hand pauses for a second against you, his movements faltering. then, he just nods, his arm tightening around your waist as he presses one more kiss to the top of you head, your breathing already evening out and your eyes fluttering closed.

"yeah," he whispers against your hair as his hand starts moving again, slower this time. "last time."

and so, obviously, it was not the last time.

the next time is only two days later. your car decided to break down in the parking lot of your work office, and you sent a panicked SOS text to the group chat. and it’s almost impressive how thoroughly the universe particularly set you up that night, because heeseung’s phone is on do not disturb, jay stuck in a late meeting, and sunghoon, based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever but strong historical precedent, is probably ‘resting his eyes’ on the couch. 

which, by process of elimination, leaves jake.

so the next thing jake knows, he’s pulling into a mostly empty parking lot and you’re getting into his car and he’s looking at you with a small smile and you’re looking back at him like you were hoping it’d be him. 

you complained about your car, jake complained about how you ignored the check engine light for three weeks. you tell him not to victim blame you in your time of need. he says your car literally gave you a warning in bright orange. you say cars are depreciating assets and capitalist by design. he says that doesn’t mean they’re wrong. 

you laugh and then he laughs and just like that, the two of you fall back into that gray area where the line blurs a little more every time you cross it until jake isn’t sure which side he’s supposed to be standing on. what he is sure about is that when he gets to your building, he parks and then looks at you and you look at him and then he finds himself turning his car off and waking up in your bed the next morning. 

the time after that happens after dinner with everyone. it’s you sitting across from him at the restaurant, laughing at something jay says, your chin resting in your hand, the sleeve of your sweater slipping over your fingers. it’s jake trying very hard not to look at you too much and failing horribly. it’s your foot bumping his once beneath the table and both of you pretending it was accidental. then twice. then not accidental at all. and then it’s jake later finding himself underneath you in the backseat of his car with his mouth on your neck and your hands under his shirt. 

then it’s a week before it happens again, which is pretty impressive given you two see each other twice in between and manage not to cave. one of those times is coffee with heeseung and sunghoon where jake mentally curses heeseung for taking the seat next to you before jake gets there. the second time is game night again but this time with too much beer involved, and you all pass out in the living room before midnight.

the next evening, however, you show up at their door with a large tote bag in your arms and two containers of hangover soup balancing on top. jake answers the door, and you're just standing there, hair a little messy, face bare, and looking at him in that very specific way that doesn't even make jake think twice before he mentions that neither heeseung or sunghoon were home at the moment. and so by now, we all probably know how this ends, and it looks a lot like you on the kitchen counter, tote bag abandoned on the floor, soup containers left unopened near the sink, and jake standing between your legs, mouth hot against your neck like he was making up for every second of the past week he spent pretending he didn't want this.

sometimes the excuse was simple. sometimes it was you needing a ride and turns into you under him in his passenger seat with the windows fogging up and his hand braced against the center console. sometimes it was because you had a bad day, and jake would show up with takeout in his hands, and then somewhere between opening the orange chicken and act two of the movie you put on, he ended up in your bed.

sometimes, there was no real reason at all, and it just simply happened, whether in his car or yours, in your bed or his, and that one time in your shower when he was supposed to be getting ready to leave and very much did not leave for another forty minutes. sometimes it was you pressed up against your front door before it even fully clicked shut and most of the time, it was on your couch because neither of you could wait to go down the hall.

jake can't really tell you exactly how long this goes on for, and that's the thing he's starting to learn about bad habits. one day something happens once, and it's a mistake. then it happens again, and it's a coincidence. then a third time, then a fourth, and suddenly there's a rhythm to it neither of you say anything about because labeling it would mean admitting you both know it exists. so jake doesn't say anything and neither do you, and if any of the guys noticed it, they don't say anything either.

it goes on long enough for the green leaves on the trees to start fading at the edges into an early stage of orange, long enough for the nights to get cooler, long enough for you to start taking his hoodies back home again without asking, and if jake notices, he pretends he doesn't. because noticing means he would having to confront this entire situation, and he knows better than to ask what this is, because is answer is probably nothing good, but also because some selfish part of him is terrified that asking will make you stop.

so he takes what he can get; he takes the late nights, the borrowed clothes, the half-finished takeout and abandoned movies, the mornings where you wake up and kiss a smile into his lips but then can't quite look at him in the eyes when he leaves. the brief, stupid moments where it almost feels like having you again.

one particular night, it had been less than twelve hours since jake last saw you. the last time being earlier that morning, when he was leaving your apartment with his hair still damp from your shower and his shirt wrinkled in a way that made him feel very obvious walking late into work. he was running on maybe three hours of sleep, which was pretty generous, honestly, because not much sleeping had actually happened with you. 

so by the time midnight rolls around, jake is exhausted. he’s already in bed when his phone buzzes next to him on the nightstand. 

y/n: hi

jake stares at his screen for half a second, his heartbeat doing that annoying thing it still, and always has, does whenever he thinks of you. then he types back.

jake: hey jake: everything okay?

he watches as the typing bubble appears, disappears, appear again, then disappears one more time. then, finally—

y/n: remember how we used to go on late night drives whenever i couldn’t fall asleep?

jake’s thumb stills over the screen. he blinks hard, because of course he remembers. you in the passenger seat with your knees tucked up, shoes kicked off, his phone in your hand because you had the important responsibility of choosing the music. the two of you driving nowhere with the windows cracked open, city lights dragging soft lines across your face, you feeding him snacks as he drove. he remembers the nights you talked about everything. the nights you said nothing at all. the nights he drove until your voice got quieter and your head finally tipped against the window.

jake swallows.

jake: of course jake: pretty sure you’re personally responsible for half the miles on my car

a few seconds pass. then your reply comes through.

y/n: what are you up to rn?

and jake knows what the correct answer is.

he could say he’s tired, which is true. he could say it’s late, which is also true. he could say he has work in the morning, which would be most definitely true and responsible and deeply unlike anything he has done lately when it comes to you.

and so, about eleven minutes later, jake finds himself parked outside your building with you climbing into his passenger seat in your pajamas. 

“hi,” you say softly.

jake looks over at you, one hand still resting on the gear shift.

“hi.”

for a second, neither of you move. then you glance down at his phone connected to the charger and raise an eyebrow.

“you still have my night drive playlist saved?"

jake’s fingers tighten slightly against the wheel, “you mean the one you named ‘insomnia is a bitch.'”

“yeah,” you say. “and?”

“kind of hard to delete something with that much artistic integrity.”

then you let out a laugh and jake decides that alone makes the whole stupid night worth it before it has even started.

jake puts the car in drive.

“where to?”

you lean your head back against the seat, eyes drifting back to meet his.

“nowhere.”

jake nods, because he knows that place. he’s taken you there before.

so he drives, with no destination, no real route. just the familiar pattern of roads the two of you used to take when sleep felt far away and the apartment felt too small and you needed to breathe for a moment.

the streets are almost empty at this hour, which helps in jake's case, because it means he can look over at you more than he probably should. you're turned toward the window, cheek resting against the seat, one sleeve covering your hand tucked under your chin. the surrounding city passes you in pieces—gold from a streetlamp, blue from a store sign, red from a traffic light that catches in your eyes when you blink.

jake keeps one hand on the wheel and the other low on the console, fingers drumming like he needs something to do with them when reaching for you isn't an option. and for the first part of it, neither of you say much, it's just the sound of your playlist in the background and the engine running and your low humming to a song you added because you knew jake liked it.

late night drives with you were never really about conversation, at least not always. sometimes they were about the silence. about knowing someone well enough that you didn't have to fill every second just to prove you still belong there. about the soft kind of company that didn't ask anything from you except presence. jake used to love that. and frankly, he still does.

eventually at some point, you shift in the passenger seat, pulling one knee up slightly as you turn towards him. jake feels the sudden attention, the way you're just quietly and carefully studying the side of his face as he tries his best to stay focused on the road ahead of him.

"did you figure it out?"

the question comes out softly. so softly in fact, that jake almost convinces himself he heard you wrong. his eyes flick to you, then back to the road.

"…figure it out?"

you don't answer right away. the car moves through a green light, an empty crosswalk. a closed bakery. a laundromat still glowing at the corner.

then you say, "you."

jake's hold tightens around the steering wheel, not looking away from the street quite yet. you keep looking at him.

"when we broke up," you say, voice almost too calm, too accepting, "you said you needed to figure out who you were outside of us. outside of me."

jake feels his stomach drop, and he can't will himself to look at you yet. because your voice isn't even sharp, isn't accusing, but moreso gentle, like you're not trying to cause a scene or hurt him with it, which somehow makes it hurt worse.

he doesn't say anything. for one ridiculous second, all he can remember is the way he said it back then, how reasonable he tried to make it sound. how carefully he chose his words, like if he stacked them neatly enough, you wouldn't see that he built something to hide behind because he was scared and tired and overwhelmed by the size of a future that started to feel more like something he could ruin if he held it wrong.

"jaeyun."

your voice pulls him back, and jake realizes he's been quiet for too long, the car slowing down like his body is trying to buy more time.

"i don't know," he says finally.

your expression doesn't change much, but your fingers curl slightly into the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "you don't know?"

he breathes out a humorless laugh. "i thought i would."

and then jake can feel it on the side of his face—the way you're looking at him, caught somewhere between hurt and frustration and like part of you understands what he means and another part of you hates that you do.

"i thought—" he starts, then stops, because the sentence already sounds stupid in his head. "i thought if i had enough space, it would make sense eventually."

"did it?"

jake swallows. because the honest answer is no. but the more honest answer is that nothing made sense, at least not in the way he wanted it to.

because, yes, he learned things. he learned how to sleep alone again, technically. granted, much, much worse, but technically. he learned which takeout places delivered late enough so he didn't have to stand in the kitchen and remember all the meals you used to make together. he learned that grocery shopping for one person is depressing in a way nobody warns you about. he learned that some silences are peaceful and some silences are just rooms missing the person who used to laugh in them.

he learned that he could live without you.

he could wake up, make his coffee, go to work, show up to game nights, make small talk, fold laundry. he continued, in the most basic and humiliating sense of the world. he learned that life did not stop without you. it just got worse.

"not really," he exhales and he feels his chest tighten when your gaze drops to your lap. "i mean, i figured out some stuff," he adds, his voice smaller now. "just not…not what i thought i would."

you're quiet for a moment. then, "like what?"

jake should keep driving. he should keep his eyes on the road and his hands where they are and answer carefully, if he answers at all. but suddenly what was supposed to be a simple night turned into this, and the thought feels instantly dumb because nothing about nights with you has ever been simple. so instead, he pulls into an empty parking lot close to the river and parks under a flickering lamp. he lets his hand fall from the wheel, rubbing once over his mouth before he finally looks over at you.

"i figured out that being without you didn't make me feel more like myself," he says. your eyes lift to his and his stomach twists. "it just made me realize how much of myself i built around loving you."

the words land and they stay there. they're out there, in that undefined space between you and him and that's when jake almost wishes he could take them back. and not because they aren't true, but because they're too true and he knows it and he can tell by the way you go still that you know it too. and now he's looking at you and how your lips part slightly but don't say anything. so he keeps going, because he thinks stopping now would somehow make everything worse.

"and i know that's not fair," he says quickly, looking down at his hands for a second before forcing himself to look back at you. "i know that sounds like i'm making it your responsibility, and i'm not trying to. i'm not. i just—" he lets out an frustrated exhale. "i thought space would teach me who i was without you. but it just taught me what everything felt like without you in it."

and then your face changes. and it's barely there, barely noticeable to the average human being. but this is jake we're talking about and jake knows you, so he knows the tiny things. he sees the way your throat moves when you swallow. he watches the way your eyes go shiny before you decide whether or not you're going to let yourself cry. he recognizes the way you look away when something hits too close because you hate giving people the satisfaction of knowing they reached you.

"hey—"

"it's fine," your words come out too quickly, too automatic, and jake hates it.

"y/n."

"it's fine," you say again, but this time when you lift your eyes to his, the expression on your face doesn't match the sentence at all. "i asked, you answered."

and jake hates that word by now. he hates it because he's spent the last eight months trying to convince himself he's fine and so by that logic, he knows you're objectively not fine.

"don't do that, y/n," he lets out quietly, eyes steady on you.

your brows then pull together and you let out a small breath through your nose, something almost like a laugh with no humor in it. "what do you want me to say, yun?"

jake feels his throat tighten, he feels his answer die on this tongue because it's selfish, and he knows it. that he wants you to say that you missed him too. that this meant something to you and that you still want him even though he doesn't deserve it or even knows what he wants himself.

you shake your head faintly, eyes dropping back to your hands. "you can't just say something like that and then look at me like i'm supposed to know what to do with it."

jake's chest caves in a little. "you don't have to do anything with it."

you turn your head slightly then, and jake sees the sad smile on your face and the way yours eyes are shining and he immediately has to look away because he doesn't think he can survive that right now.

"that's not how this works."

jake pauses for moment, his heart hammering and brain screaming yet failing to find the right thing to say when the moment actually matters.

"i'm sorry," he eventually says, because he doesn't know what else to do with the ache in his chest. and he even doesn't know which part he's apologizing for—for everything he said? or everything he didn't? or maybe the breakup, then the late nights, and the last times that kept turning into next times.

your eyes close at his words, your head leaning back against the seat as a small, unsteady breath slips out of you.

"i know."

not forgiveness, not closure, but just two soft words sitting quietly between you, like you don't have the energy to be angry at him right now. like anger would require too much from you, and this conversation has already taken enough.

jake stays still. he watches you carefully, fighting back every instinct in his body telling him to reach for you when he notices the way your lashes are damp and the way your mouth presses into a thin line like you're holding so much back.

then, quietly, you whisper, "drive?"

jake nods, even though your eyes are still closed.

"yeah," he says softly, and then he puts the car into drive and backs out of the parking lot and that was it.

the next few days after that go terribly slow, because they feel terribly normal, which doesn't help jake's case at all because he just feels plain terrible. your name still shows up in his texts, because you're still laughing at sunghoon's jokes and liking messages and sending random tiktok posts. but you stop texting him separately, you stop showing up randomly at the apartment with takeout because you were bored. you don't complain about your car or tell him your day in that casual, thoughtless way you had started doing again. and jake spends three long, terrible days pretending he is normal about it.

by the third night, he gives in.

jake: hey jake: are we okay

he stares at the message after he hits send and mentally smacks himself in the head. what a stupid question. what does okay even mean between two people who broke up almost ten months ago, hooked up more times than considered healthy, had a deeply unsettling conversation in an empty parking lot, and then ended the night with you asking him to drive you home because sitting still in silence with him became unbearable?

still, he waits. one minute. three. seven. then your reply comes through.

y/n: yeah y/n: why wouldn't we be

jake exhales. then that exhale turns into a groan which then turns into him pressing his face into his pillow and screaming into it for a full three seconds, because that is both an answer and not helpful whatsoever.

why wouldn't we be?

jake could think of at least twelve reasons off the top of his head right now, and that was him being generous, because the two of you have been operating under a very loose definition of okay for months now.

okay meant broken up but still friends. okay meant friends but sleeping together. okay meant sleeping together but not talking about it. okay meant not talking about it then everything exploding in jake's face all at once.

so, really, the range of what okay meant here was alarmingly broad.

jake: idk jake: just checking

your typing bubble appears, disappears. appears again.

y/n: we're fine yun

jake lies back against his pillow and stares at the ceiling and pretends he didn't just see that word. fine. his least favorite word in the entire english language, currently beating last time, mature, and okay, which says something because he feels very strongly about those words in this phase of his life right now.

still, he takes it and runs with it.

jake: okay jake: can i see you?

and then he shuts his phone off. because he doesn't really know how else to word can we fix whatever happened in the car and, the more private one in his head, can you please stop sounding like you're already halfway gone?

you take longer to answer this time. long enough that jake picks his phone back up, locks it, unlocks it, puts it back down, then considers throwing himself directly into traffic.

y/n: early morning tmrw, sorry y/n: another time?

it's not a no. but it's not a yes either. and that's pretty much how the next two weeks pass.

you don't show up to game night that week, telling the group you're feeling under the weather. heeseung sends three sad face emojis. jay tells you to drink water. sunghoon says, okay yea sureee, and then follows up with a but get better <3. jake waits exactly nine minutes before texting you privately.

jake: are you feeling okay? y/n: yeah just tired jake: need anything? i'll can get the soup you like y/n: no im ok y/n: thank you though

jake stares at it until the screen dims.

by the end of the third week, jake found himself getting better at finding distractions to keep his mind elsewhere. errands help a little, long showers help sometimes. work helps because he's busy enough to forget he has a phone. and soccer, as it turns out, is one of them.

the day is going objectively well, which really means something because it has been some time since jake has had a day he could honestly call good. the sun is out, the sky is clear. he remembered to eat breakfast before noon and his coffee tasted just right. his favorite hoodie came out of the wash without shrinking, and for a few hours, his chest doesn't feel like it has something heavy sitting inside it.

so when sunghoon suggests they play at the park nearby, jake actually says yes before anyone can guilt him into it. and it feels good. he scores once against jay, then again, then a third time which jay insists doesn't count because he was not ready but jake counts it anyways. by the end of it, jake is sweaty and out of breath and lying dramatically on the grass with one arm thrown over his eyes while heeseung complains about his lungs from next to him.

"i think i'm dying," heeseung says.

sunghoon, sitting besides him with his knees pulled up, barely looks over. "i think you're being dramatic."

heeseung then shoots him a pointed look and jay snorts and takes the water bottle from jake's hand.

the four of them end up in a scattered circle at the edge of the field, passing around the same water bottle because everyone except jake forgot to pack theirs, naturally. they talk about nothing for a while. about how lucky they got that the highschoolers in the area didn't claim the field before they did. about the new burger king opening down the block even though jake is pretty sure no one has willingly gone to a burger king since 2014. about how jay thinks he can beat them all in a footrace if properly motivated, which immediately turns into a ten minute argument because sunghoon says jay runs like the character that dies first in a horror movie.

jake lets himself enjoy it for a little while, which was a mistake from the start and he should've known it. because eventually a short silence settles over the group, the kind that only happens after everyone runs out of nonsense to contribute and is too tired to invent more.

sunghoon is the first one to break it. he clears his throat, twisting a blade of grass between his fingers before looking over at jake.

"you look like you're doing okay," he says, carefully enough that the carefulness becomes suspicious. "considering everything."

jake stills. the water bottle pauses halfway to his mouth. then he lowers it slowly.

"considering everything?"

he looks at sunghoon, but sunghoon is looking at jay, who's already staring at him with a death stare, and then heeseung, still lying flat on his back, suddenly starts coughing on absolutely nothing.

jake looks between the three of them, eyes narrowing. "why wouldn't i be?"

and then no one says anything, which is impressive, honestly, because between the three of them, silence has never been a skill they possess collectively. jake turns his head to jay, who is now looking at a patch of grass in front of him.

"jay," jake says slowly. "why wouldn't i be okay?"

jay looks up. his mouth opens, then closes. then opens again, but with much, much less confidence than before.

"i—we—okay, look," he drags a hand over his face, eyes darting from jake to sunghoon to heeseung, then back to the grass. "she didn't want to make it a big deal."

jake's stomach drops. he thinks he stops breathing but he can't stop the next word when it slips out of him anyways. "who?"

which is stupid, because he knows who, we all know who. 

sunghoon groans quietly, heeseung sits up slowly, and jay genuinely looks pained.

"y/n," jay says finally. and just like that, jake's objectively good day has taken a turn because just hearing your name gives his nervous system the absurd power to malfunction. he has to force himself to breathe.

"what about her?"

jay hesitates. then, "it was just something she told me in passing the other day," he adds quickly. "and i didn't really think much about it at first."

"think much about what?"

sunghoon closes his eyes like bracing himself, and from next to him, heeseung mutters, "oh god."

jay exhales. "she went on a date."

for a second, jake doesn't move, doesn't breathe, and he's pretty sure his heart stops for a moment there.

and the world keeps existing around him. somewhere across the grass, a kid laughs loudly and someone's dog barks at absolutely nothing and a car honks in the distance. but inside him, everything goes very, very still. his face feels strange, too blank, too calm for having just heard five words that could have very well just changed the trajectory of his life.

"who?" is the first word that comes out of him and he regrets it immediately. because he doesn't want to know. because he does. no, he doesn't and he really, really shouldn't.

jay's expression shifts to something more gentle. "i don't know."

jake gives him a look. "you don't know?"

"she didn't say."

"you didn't ask?"

"no, jake," jay sighs in between. " and even if i did, you probably shouldn't know that information anyways."

"right," jake lets out, the expression on his face blank then shakes his head to himself. "right, yeah. of course."

and then all at once, it all made sense. the quiet, the distance. the way you've been slowly pulling back these past few weeks ever since the night in the car. the way that another time texted turned into nothing. the way jake stopped texting first because he told himself he was giving you space, because he didn't want to look too desperate, which was stupid, because he is, but also because some stupid, fragile part of him wanted you to be the one to reach for him this time. but you never did. and maybe that night had been it.

maybe that night had been the thing that made you decide you couldn’t keep waiting for him to become brave enough to want you properly. that you needed to try something else, someone else. the thought of that twists something in jake so hard it almost feels physical.

sunghoon lean back on his hands, "you knew this could happen one day."

jake laughs once, short and humorless. he knew you could date. he knew you should date, probably. he knew you were allowed to move on because he was the one who let you go. actually no, that sounds too generous. he was the one who pushed you there, handed you back to the world, and is now sitting here, shocked as if he wasn't the one who did it himself.

"i mean," heeseung then clears his throat, and pauses for a moment to rethink his next words. "you could also…go on one. a date."

jake turns his head slowly, and heeseung lifts both hands a little, already defensive. "i'm just saying."

"don't," sunghoon mutters.

"look," heeseung ignores him and then looks back at jake. "i know some people, and i think it'd be good for you."

and somehow, out of everything said so far, that is the sentence that makes jake's brain stop fully working. because the idea is so foreign to him that, for one second, he genuinely doesn't understand it. it's like a formula jake has never once ever thought he would need to solve: a date + him + someone else that isn't you.

some girl sitting across from him at a table, asking what he does for work, laughing politely at something he says, maybe touching his arm if the conversation goes well. some girl he would have to learn from the beginning. favorite drink. favorite movie. whether she likes cilantro. if she runs cold or warm. what makes her laugh too hard, what she looks like when she's tired.

the thought feels less like moving on and more like being asked to speak a language he never learned. or worse, one he only used to know because of you.

"he has a point. it's not the craziest idea," jay says. "not right away, maybe. but eventually."

eventually.

eventually almost beats fine on jake's list of hated words. because eventually implies a future where this is normal. where you date someone else and he dates someone else and the two of you become a story told in past tense. three and a half years turned into a story time. something that happened before whatever comes next. and maybe that's healthy, maybe that's the entire point of this entire thing.

but eventually is not now, and right now, the sheer thought of moving on feels impossible in a way he doesn't know how to explain without sounding pathetic.

"i'm not really interested," he then says.

heeseung nods quickly. "yeah. no. totally fair."

"like, at all." "yep. got it." "not even a little." "heard you the first time."

jake rubs a hand through his hair as he exhales. "sorry. thank you, though."

heeseung softens a little. "don't be."

"look," jay speaks up again, with something that sounds genuine laced in his tone, which just makes it worse. "you don't have to be ready to fall in love with someone else, nobody's saying that. but maybe you should at least find out whether the idea of moving on is impossible because you're actually not ready, or because you've never let yourself try."

jake's mouth closes. because that, unfortunately for him, is a very valid sentence. a sentence with full structure and complete sense and a point that lands somewhere jake doesn't particularly want to confront right now. because he can't even imagine it without feeling like he's doing something wrong. which is stupid, because he has been single for almost ten months now. you went on a date. and you are allowed to go on dates. he is allowed to go on dates. everyone involved is technically allowed to do everything they are doing and that just makes it ten times more complicated because nothing ruins a good spiral more than the fact that no one is actually breaking any rules.

"i don't know," he mutters eventually, and jay just nods back, like he was expecting that.

"you don't have to know. just think about it." "i don't really want to think about it." "then think about why you don't want to think about it." jake lets out a small laugh, but it comes out wrong. "jay." "yeah?" "you're being deeply irritating." "i know," jay shrugs. "but i'm right."

jake hates that no one immediately disagrees.

heeseung just nods, not really saying anything else and sunghoon is just staring at the blade of grass in between his fingers.

after another minute, jake stands too quickly, brushing dirt off his shorts. "i'm gonna head home."

sunghoon looks up. "jake."

"i'm good," he says, already reaching for his bag. "seriously. i just need to shower."

the three of them give him a long look.

"don't disappear. you'll be okay."

jake pauses. then shrugs. "i'm not disappearing. i live with you."

then he swings his bag over one shoulder and starts walking before anyone can say anything else helpful, which is really just another word for unbearable at this point. and on his walk back home, jake thinks about it. not willingly, of course, but because now the idea is in his head and it refuses to leave.

he tries to picture it practically first, as if maybe it will make it less awful. heeseung gives him a number. he texts some girl. they agree on dinner. he picks a place that isn't too romantic but not too casual either. he shows up, she shows up. they sit down. they talk. all simple, normal things that normal people do every day. so maybe the idea isn't all too impossible.

maybe he could do it. and maybe that was the terrifying part. maybe he goes and maybe he survives it, or maybe he genuinely enjoys it.

or maybe, and this is the uglier truth he doesn't want to examine too closely, something deep inside him is scared and bitter and hurt that you are clearly trying to be okay without him. that you sat across from someone else and gave the world proof that your life could move on, even after him.

and so maybe jake is not mature enough to sit with that. maybe he needs to prove to you, to himself, to whatever higher power there is out there that he too can move on, even if he has to force it.

so by the time he enters the apartment, drops his bag by the door, and stares at his phone in his hand, the decision is already there. he unlocks it before he can talk himself out of it and texts heeseung.

jake: what's your friend's name?

her name is mina.

and she is nice. that's the first thing jake learns about her. she's nice in that easy, uncomplicated way that makes people comfortable. nice in the way she laughs at his jokes even when they're only kind of funny, which jake appreciates but also immediately distrusts because he knows, objectively, that he is not that funny.

the first date is at a cafe heeseung recommends. mina asks about his job, his roommates, soccer, what kind of movies he likes. she tells him about her own work, about her older sister, about how she hates olives but keeps trying them every year just to confirm she still hates them. she’s easy to talk to, the conversation doesn’t drag.

jake walks away thinking it could have been worse.

the second date is dinner. nothing too fancy, just some small place downtown with warm lights and a menu that takes jake too long to read because he keeps thinking about what you would’ve ordered.

which is unfair, he knows. unfair to mina, mostly, and also to him, maybe. but the thought appears anyways and sticks until the appetizers come out. 

mina then tells a story about getting locked out of her apartment once while holding a bag of frozen dumplings, and jake genuinely laughs that time, and it surprises him enough that he feels guilty for it immediately after.

and then he feels guilty for feeling guilty for having a moderately pleasant time with a nice girl who has done absolutely nothing wrong except not be you.

the third time, mina asks him if he's ever been to the park near the river at the edge of town. jake says yes before he thinks too hard about it, but unfortunately, he is already thinking hard about it.

she doesn't know it's where jake kissed you for the first time ever. where the two of you stood underneath a streetlamp in the middle of october, both pretending you weren't cold because neither of you wanted to be the first one to suggest going home. where you laughed against his mouth afterwards because he was so nervous.

she doesn't know any of that. she just says, "it's pretty this time of year," and jake just agrees like his entire chest didn't just cave in and goes anyways.

it's cooler out by now, the trees either fully orange or already shedding around them. jake buys them hot chocolate from a cart nearby because he doesn't know what else to do with his hands. she laughs when he burns his tongue, and he laughs too. and again, it's simple at first.

but every few steps, the park starts to become something else. a bench becomes you sitting cross-legged next to him with fries balanced in your lap. the river railing becomes where jake first grabbed your hand and held it inside his jacket pocket because you forgot gloves one winter.

that one streetlamp they pass becomes three and a half years ago, with you looking up at him, cheeks pink from the cold, your hair slightly messy from the wind, looking up at him with your eyes bright and teasing, saying, "are you going to kiss me or are you just going to keep staring?"

jake laughed nervously, caught off guard, looking down,"i'm not staring."

"you are. it's okay though."

"i'm…trying to be respectful."

"you've been staring at my mouth for ten minutes."

"that's not—"

"jaeyun."

and that had done it. you said it quietly and carefully, like you knew exactly where to touch the sentence to make him stop running from it. his smile softened.

"i just really want to do this right," he admitted, voice lower now.

then you stepped closer, tilting your head as you looked up at him.

"you've been doing everything right," you said with the softest smile on your face. then your hand came up just enough to catch the front of his jacket and he leaned it first.

and the first kiss was not perfect, by all means. he bumped your nose and then you laughed against his mouth. he whispered "sorry" even though he was smiling so hard the word barely came out and you whispered, "don't ruin it."

so he kissed you again, this time with your hand curled into his jacket and his fingers brushing your cheek like he can't believe he was allowed to finally have you like that. and when you pulled away, you had that kind of smile on your face made him feel, stupidly and immediately, like the whole world had narrowed down to one streetlamp, one cold night, one girl looking at him like she chose him on purpose.

"okay," you exhaled afterwards.

jake just blinked back. "okay?"

"yeah." you smiled wider. "you should do that again."

"you okay?"

mina's voice cuts through so suddenly, making jake blink hard.

"yeah," he says, looking away from the streetlamp before forcing a small smile. "just cold."

and still, after that night, jake keeps going. that's kind of how his life moves on for the next month. he wakes up, goes to work. comes home from work, plays video games with the guys until someone falls asleep. plays soccer on the weekends when the weather is decent. sees mina every now and then when their schedules line up and tries very, very hard not to spend the entire time wondering what you're doing on your end.

because mina is nice. and mina is funny. and jake likes her, in the general sense. in the she is a good person and this is objectively pleasant sense. in the sense that makes jake feel like if he was a decent guy, he would know what to do with that. instead, he finds himself sitting there, waiting for that ache. that shift, that terrifying, inevitable feeling of wanting so badly to know someone better and realizing it might ruin him.

but jake keeps trying anyways, because he convinces himself that maybe this is what moving on looks like—it's messy, it's nonlinear, it's effort.

by the seventh or eighth time they see each other (jake stopped counting because counting makes it feel like something), sunghoon casually brings up one night, "so are we ever meeting her or are you embarrassed by your friends?"

jake looks up from his phone. "i'm always embarrassed by my friends."

and that is how he ends up at the bar that weekend with mina tucked into the corner booth beside him. heeseung sits across from her, smiling too polite, sunghoon beside him, looking calm but observant in a mildly intimidating way, and jay at the end of the booth, already looking like he's pretending not to judge.

and jake sits there, hand wrapped around his glass, watching mina laugh at something heeseung says, trying to feel normal about the fact that maybe this is what his life looks like now—and then trying even harder not to think about the one person missing from the table.

it's around an hour into the night when jake wishes he didn't think about it too hard though, because he's pretty sure he manifested you. because then the bar door opens, letting in a breeze of cold air rush in, followed by a burst of laughter from a small group near the entrance that makes everyone at the table look over, and suddenly, there you are.

jake doesn't know how to really describe the emotions that rush through him all at once in that moment. fear first, maybe. then guilt. then shock, even though he really shouldn't be surprised, because this is your usual bar too, your usual people, your usual seat tucked under jake's arm before everything got complicated and then more complicated and then quietly disappeared.

he sees the exact moment you spot them, sees the way your expression pause, but not drop exactly, because you're too good for that. he just sees something in your face still, just for half a second, your eyes moving from heeseung to jay to sunghoon before landing on mina beside him. and then finally, him. and that's when jake adds a new emotion onto the list—nauseous.

but because you've already seen them and they've already seen you, you come over anyways and jake can see the equally subtle and deeply terrified looks the guys are giving him from the corner of his eyes as he chooses to stare directly at his empty glass instead.

by the time you reach the table, mina, bless her heart, is the first to speak, bright and excited and entirely unaware of the scene she just wandered into. "oh my gosh, you must be y/n!"

and jake feels everything in him still. of course she knows your name, of course. not in the way you probably know hers, by force and bad luck and most likely from the guys mentioning her to you before anyone thought to warn him this night might someday exist, but in a normal way. in that casual way someone learns the names of their boyfriend's friends.

boyfriend.

jake doesn't know if that word belongs there. he doesn't know if mina thinks it does. he doesn't know if you do. he hopes you don't and he hates that he hopes that.

you smile back immediately and it's polite and smooth and sweet and jake wants to crawl out of his own skin.

"hi," you say. "mina right?"

"yeah," mina says warmly. "it's nice to finally meet you. i heard you're, like, the glue of this group."

jake looks down at the table. you glance at him for one second before looking away and back at her with a small smile, "i try my best."

sunghoon then immediately shifts over, pressing closer against heeseung to make a small space at the end of the booth. "sit," he says, too loudly and too stiff. "unless you're meeting someone. are you meeting someone? you can still sit. or not. no pressure."

jay closes his eyes immediately.

heeseung mutters under his breath, "wow."

you let out a small laugh, and jake hates how fast his body reacts to it.

"i came with some people," you say, glancing vaguely over your shoulder at a small group standing near the bar, "but i can stay for a little."

so that's how you end up here, squeezed next to sunghoon and heeseung, and across from jake in that complicated way where it makes it impossible for him to not look at you.

the next thirty minutes go painfully slow for jake. mina talks about work, heeseung asks too many questions because silence makes him nervous, sunghoon makes one of his dry jokes and everyone laughs.

and you are perfect.

you smile when you talk, you ask mina about herself, you nod when she talks and you act like this is normal. like sitting across from the girl jake has been seeing doesn't make your throat tight.

jake, meanwhile, barely says anything all night. which you, of course, notice immediately. but mina also notices. mina notices and then everything proceeds to blow up in flames right afterwards. because after a while, she turns towards him, nudging his arm gently with hers.

"you're quiet tonight," she says, smiling softly, voice low but still clear enough for everyone at the table to hear. "tired, jaeyunie?"

and the best way to describe the mutual, shared reaction the table has at the sound of her saying those words, that name—that name no one else calls him because they've tried and he would shoot them down with something like "only y/n calls me that"—is like watching a house catch fire, explode, and then burn down into ashes in real time.

jake freezes. jay stops mid-sip. heeseung's eyes flick to jake so, so fast. sunghoon's face goes completely blank like he knew shit was about to go down and you—you don't move. you just look down at the drink in front of you and blink a few times and suddenly jake can't breathe.

mina doesn't pick up on it fully, of course, because she doesn't know. she doesn't know, which is the problem. it's soft, affectionate, and harmless to her. to her, it's probably just a cute nickname, something she tried once and he didn't correct because he had been too startled, too tired, too cowardly to explain that the name already belonged somewhere, to someone else.

your eyes stay down, and your hand around the glass is shaking now, and of course jake notices. he notices everything when it comes to you, apparently, except how not to hurt you. jake stays quiet, his heart pounding too quickly now, swallowing hard because there's now a lump sitting in his throat and he might actually be sick.

mina's smile falters a little. "what?"

"nothing," jake says too quickly. too quickly, because jay looks at him. too quickly, because you finally lift your eyes and you finally look right at him. and you're not angry, not even hurt in a way jake could apologize for. but it was like something small and private had been taken right out of your hands in front of everyone, and you're trying very hard not to make anyone feel bad for noticing you lost it.

you suddenly sit up a little straighter. "i'm gonna get some fresh air," you say, your voice too light.

sunghoon shifts immediately, "do you want me to—"

"no," you say quickly, already sliding out of the booth. then, softer, with a smile that doesn't fully reach, "i'm fine."

and there it is again. that word again. fine. the most useless lie any of you have ever told.

you grab your bag and step away from the table before anyone can stop you. everyone watches you go in a terribly awkward silence, and mina's brows pull together, turning back to jake.

"did i say something?"

jake's throat tightens.

"no," he says too quickly and too automatic before he feels an instant wave of guilt and pain and regret because now mina is there, kind and oblivious and confused, while jake feels like the cruelest person in the room for letting her borrow a name he never should have let anyone else touch.

"i'll be right back," he then says, already moving.

jay's head snaps up. "jake."

sunghoon says his name too, quieter. like a warning, or a plea, or both.

mina looks up at him, confusion still written all over her, "is everything okay?"

jake looks at her, then toward the bar's doors where you left, then back at her and realized, with something incredibly heavy in his chest, that there is no good answer.

"yeah," he says, because apparently lying badly is the only thing he knows how to do anymore. "i just need a second."

mina nods slowly as jake steps out of the booth. and as he walks towards the exit and through the doors, he can feel all three of the guys watching him like they already know this is either the first right thing he's done in weeks or another terrible mistake he's going to regret.

the cold air hits jake the second he steps outside and for one disoriented second, he just stands there under the weak glow of the bar sign, the sound of music and laughter muffled behind the door as it swings shut behind him. he looks both directions down the sidewalk before he finally sees you near the end of the block, head down, walking fast with your arms wrapped around yourself like you're trying to keep yourself together.

"wait—y/n—" his voice cuts through the quiet, rougher than he means it to be. you don't turn around, still walking away.

"i'm good, jake. seriously," you sound small as you call out behind you.

he jogs a little to catch up. "no, please," he says, voice heavy. "can we just talk?"

you turn in your steps so sharply that jake has to stop short, his shoes skidding slightly against the pavement. jake halts in his step, brows furrowed, chest rising up and down.

"why?"

jake blinks back at you, shaking his head slightly in confusion. "w-what?"

"why," you repeat, and your voice is already trembling, already angry, your eyes already shining with the kind of tears you've been holding back for too long. "that night in your car, when you told me you didn’t know if you’d figured—" you gesture vaguely between the two of you, around the street, at the space where your lives used to fit together cleanly. "if you’d figured all this shit out. our breakup, who you are, what you wanted, all of it. you said you didn’t know."

jake doesn’t say anything. he just stands there, breathing too hard, watching the tears gather along your lashes.

"so why did you do it?" you ask.

his throat tightens.

"why did you—" your voice cracks, and you press your lips together like you hate yourself for it. "why did you break us?"

and that was the real question from that night in the car. the one you were too scared to ask because the answer terrified you. not did you figure it out? but was it worth it? did losing you give him whatever he thought he needed? did ruining the best thing in his life at least mean something?

jake looks away first. he looks away and he knows he's a coward and that he always has been a coward in the moments that matter most.

"y/n—" he says, barely above a whisper.

"no." you shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks now. "no, don’t do that. don’t say my name like that, like you’re hurt because i’m finally asking.

he goes quiet, his arms hanging uselessly by his side. because maybe that’s what he should have done the first time. maybe he should've listened, and stayed, and let you be angry without trying to turn it into something easier for him to handle.

"you made that decision alone," you say, voice cracking hard now as you spoke louder, faster, "you stood there and told me it was for the best, and i believed you because i loved you, and because you looked so sad saying it that i thought…" you swallow, wiping angrily under one eye. "i don’t know. i thought maybe loving you meant trusting that you knew what you needed."

jake can’t breathe right. he blinks hard, one of his own tears now running down his face.

“i trusted you more than i trusted myself,” you whisper. “like loving you made me stupid.”

his head snaps up. “i never thought that.”

“but you acted like it.”

jake shakes his head, looking down at the ground, silently begging the universe that this is all some sick, cruel dream. he has no defense, nothing he can say that can reverse this entire night, this entire past year that's been haunting his every waking moment of every day. so he just stands there and takes it.

"you acted like you could decide what hurt less for both of us," you continue. "like you could walk away and call it mercy. like—" you stop, letting out a broken exhale to ground yourself for a moment.

jake’s eyes burn.

"it wasn’t like that."

"then help me understand," you say, words coming out more like a plea, "because i have been trying to understand you for eleven months, jake. eleven months. i have replayed every conversation, every look, every stupid quiet moment before you left, trying to figure out what i missed."

his jaw trembles and he hates that it does. he hates that he has no right to look hurt and ruined when you're the one he left, you're the one who he broke.

"and then you pull me back into this fucked up mess," you say, voice rising. "you act jealous, you tell people we're together, you text me. you ask me to come over. you look at me like that. you touch me like you—"

you stop. then he watches as your face crumples for half a second before you force it back.

"like you just want the easy parts of me without actually choosing me."

and that one goes straight through him. that one makes jake feel like he just got punched right in the gut and he wants to vomit everything inside him right then and there because no other words said could be untrue.

"you know that's not what i was doing," he says, stepping forward, and it's the first thing he's said steady enough. "you know that's not true, y/n."

your eyes flash. "then what were you doing?"

jake doesn't answer fast enough, not because he doesn't know, but because he's terrified that he does. because you’re standing there with tears streaming down your face, close enough for him to reach for and too far for him to deserve, and every possible version of the truth makes him sound exactly like the person he never wanted to be to you.

you just nod, crying harder now, almost laughing like you can't believe you expected anything else from him. "exactly."

there's a beat of silence.

"i'm sorry," the words fall out of him uselessly. too small, too minor for what they're standing in. his voice breaks again. "i'm so sorry."

"i know," you whisper, and that somehow makes it hurt worse. "i know you are. i know you're sorry. i know you didn't mean to hurt me. i know you're confused and scared and whatever else you are, and i keep letting that matter more than the fact that you hurt me anyways."

jake forces himself to look at you, and you look so small in front of him, so broken, because of him.

"and i know i’m part of it," you say, voice softer now. "i know i keep letting it happen. the first night in your car, in your apartment, every time after that. i keep answering and showing up and asking you to, and i know that’s on me too. i’m not pretending i’m innocent here."

"don’t," jake lets out quietly. "don’t blame yourself for me being selfish."

for a second, you just stare at him. then your face twists into something sad, angry, tired, all of the above. 

“then stop being selfish.”

he flinches and you see it, but you keep going anyway.

"because i don’t know what you want from me anymore." your voice breaks completely into a sob there, and you press a hand to your chest like the words physically hurt coming out. “i don’t know if you want me to wait. i don’t know if you want me to move on, and trust me, i tried so, so hard to. and i don’t know if you want to be my friend or my ex or whatever the fuck this is supposed to be when you look at me like you still want me and then bring your new girlfriend to places we share with our friends.”

"she's not—"

you shake your head, forcing out a bitter laugh. "don't correct me on the technicality, yun. please. not right now."

his mouth closes.

"maybe she's not your girlfriend," you say, tears still falling. "maybe you don't know what she is either. apparently that's kind of your thing now." you gesture back to the bar behind him. "but she's in there right now, thinking she's something in your life enough to call you that name, and i was supposed to just sit there and smile like you weren't texting me to come over a month ago like it would actually mean something."

jake's eyes squeeze shut for a second. his face immediately feels hot.

"it did," he forces out through a choked breath. "every single time, it meant something."

you go still. then, quieter, "did it?"

and that one hurt, because he wants to say yes immediately. he wants to say of course it did, are you insane, it meant everything, it has meant everything since the second you walked out of his apartment eleven months ago and took every version of his future with you.

"to me," he says, voice shaking. "yes."

"then say it," your expression shifts. "say what this is."

jake's mouth opens but nothing comes out. because the truth is too ugly and too honest for him to just hand to you. that he regretted leaving almost immediately, but his pride was too fragile to admit it and his fear too loud to undo it. that he broke your heart trying to save himself, then came crawling back to you in pieces because he still missed you, wanted you, loved you but couldn't bring himself to say it.

that he has spent the last year making decisions too big for him and then acting surprised when he finds out he can't carry them.

you nod once, like his silence confirms something you were already afraid of.

"yeah," you whisper.

"y/n—"

"i love you, jaeyun."

everything in him stops. everything physically hurts immediately.

it’s been nearly a year since he last heard you say those words, and after all that time, this is what they sound like now. not warm, not sleepy, not mumbled against his shoulder in the morning. they sound ruined. they sound like something you wish you could take back from your own heart, like you wish it wasn't true. like the words have been sitting in your throat for months, cutting you open every time you swallow them back.

"i love you," you say again, crying openly now. "and that is the worst part, because i don’t know what to do with it anymore. i don’t know where to put it."

jake's vision blurs.

"i love you too," he says, and it comes out broken. "i never stopped."

your face crumples and for one awfully slow second, he thinks you might step towards him. but instead, you step back, shaking your head.

"then you need to figure your shit out," you say, voice shaking. "because i can’t keep doing it for you."

he takes a step forward, and you immediately shake your head even harder. "no."

he freezes, his hands trembling like they're instinctively trying to reach you and comfort you and tell you that the two you are going to be okay. "please," he whispers.

"i can’t keep doing this." you wipe at your cheeks with both hands now, angry at the tears, angry at him, angry at yourself. "as friends. as exes. as whatever the fuck this is. i can’t keep being around you and pretending like we’re okay when we haven’t been okay for a long time."

jake has never hated himself more. not when he broke up with you. not when he woke up next to you in your bed a few months ago and left without saying anything. not even inside the bar, when you watched mina fit into his life and he did nothing fast enough to stop it. this is worse. this is you finally telling him what his pride, his fear, his confusion—what it all cost, and he has to stand here and hear every word.

"i need to go," you say. "i really hope you find what you need, yun. genuinely."

and that is the final blow to what's left of jake's heart. because after all of it, after ten minutes of standing in the cold and crying through every way he hurt you, after finally letting out what you've been carrying with you for nearly the past year, the last thing you give him isn't anger. it's still kindness, the tired, broken, honest fragments of it you have left. the kindness that still wants the best for him even if you can no longer be the person who helps him find it.

jake doesn’t follow when you finally turn and walk away. he stands there on the sidewalk, under the distant bar light, with the door somewhere behind him full of warmth and music and people who have no idea his whole life just split open in the middle of the street.

and for a long time, he doesn’t move. because jake had spent the last eleven months convincing himself he was fine.

he wasn’t fine. he hasn't been fine in a long, long time.

jake has felt heartbreak before. heartbreak was the first morning after the breakup, waking up on his side of the bed and reaching for a body that wasn't there anymore. he's felt sadness too. sadness was seeing you laughing in the same room as his friends and realizing he was missing his best friend, even though she was only five feet away. anger, definitely. anger was seeing red at that party all those months ago when jungwon stood too close to you, when jake realized the world didn't stopped wanting you just because he had been stupid enough to let you go.

but this? this is new. this is numbness. jake feels numb and hollow and empty because he thinks he really, truly lost you this time. which is exactly what he had been so afraid of in the first place, and somehow, impossibly, the place every one of his decisions had been leading him towards.

because at least during those first eight months after the breakup, he still had you in some way. you, as his friend. you, as the girl who still texted the groupchat and showed up to game night and smiled at him sometimes, even if the smile was forced or polite.

then you, as the girl he kept finding his way back to in the worst possible way. one night that became another. one mistake both of you swore wouldn't happen again until it did. one almost, then another, then another, all of them close enough to feel like love and far enough that neither of you had to say what it really was.

but now, you are just y/n. someone who used to everywhere, but now nowhere. someone who is suddenly trying very, very hard to make it seem like you were never in his life at all.

the texts stop completely. the guys stop mentioning you whenever jake is in the room, which just makes everything obviously ten times worse. conversations bend around your name, jokes cut off too early. heeseung starts saying "someone" when he means you, and jay starts glaring at him every time he does.

you unfollow jake on everything too. which is a stupid and small thing for jake to overthink, except he sits there anyways staring at his phone for ten full minutes when he notices, feeling like someone reached into his life and took one more ordinary thing he didn't know he was still counting on.

game nights still happen, just not the same, for obvious reasons. your usual spot on the couch stays empty the first time, and everyone pretends not to notice. the second time, sunghoon sits there by accident and then looks so uncomfortable about it that he gets up halfway through the night and says the angle is bad for his neck. jake doesn't say anything.

figuring his shit out, jake learns very quickly, is not nearly as poetic as it sounded when you said it. it's mostly quiet. ugly, sometimes, and then boring, often. it's waking up and trying not to check his phone. then it's opening your contact anyways, staring at your name until his chest hurts, then locking his phone and putting it facedown because missing you is not the same thing as respecting you.

figuring it out is telling mina the truth.

not all of it, because some of it is not hers to carry anyways, but enough. that she's nice, that she did nothing wrong, that he's sorry for trying to turn her into proof that he was ready when he wasn't.

mina listens quietly, then she nods and says, "i hope you figure it out."

and jake almost laughs, because of how ironic that is.

but he tries and frankly, badly, at first. but then a little less badly.

he plays soccer even when he doesn't feel like moving, he lets sunghoon drag him to the grocery store and he tries to cook a new recipe which he inevitably butchers, but at least he tried.

one night, they're all sitting around in the living room when heeseung starts telling a story. and being heeseung is heeseung, he gets too invested and realizes halfway through that the story involves you. your name catches before it leaves his mouth and he tries to clear his throat just as quickly but there's an awkward pause anyways.

that's when jake says, "you guys can say her name."

the room goes quiet. he keeps his eyes on the tv in front of him.

"i mean it," he says. "you don't have to keep acting like she died."

sunghoon is the first to answer. "good," he says, too quickly. "i was running out of fake names to use in my stories."

heeseung lets out a laugh that sounds mostly relieved. jay doesn't say anything, but later, when they're cleaning up, he squeezes jake's shoulder and leaves it there for half a second and jake understands.

winter starts to slowly settle in, enough for the windows to fog in the morning, that the bar puts festive lights up. enough that jake starts seeing his breath in the air and starts wearing jackets over his hoodies. enough that the park near the river turns gray and bare, all the leaves gone now.

jake goes there alone one night. he tells himself he's just on a walk, because he read somewhere that they're good for you and he's trying to be better at whatever “good for him” looks like, so he puts on a jacket over his hoodie, shoves his hands into its pockets, and walks.

he walks until he gets to the spot. until he gets to the streetlamp where he kissed you for the first time and he stands there and waits for the memory to swallow him whole.

he stands there and closes his eyes and it hurts. it really, really hurts. but then he opens his eyes and realizes it doesn't destroy him, that he's still standing and that he's, relatively, more or less, okay. so he stays there for a minute, then for two more. then he breathes in, breathes out, and for the first time, he lets himself remember you without turning the memory into a reason or an excuse to want something from you.

he just lets himself miss you.

because maybe healing is not forgetting. maybe healing is learning how to hold the memories even if it cuts him, even if it hurts. maybe healing is letting himself fully feel every emotion, everything he ignored, pretended didn't exist, everything he thought would disappear if he kept moving.

so jake keeps trying.

he fixes the plant on his window sill, he takes down the broken string light instead of leaving it slowly dying, blinking above his bed. he washes the hoodie you used to steal the most and folds it into the back of his drawer.

he starts making decisions. small ones, but his own ones. what to eat, where to go. what to do with a free afternoon when there is no you to ask, no you to orbit, no you to think about. and then slowly, so, so slowly, jake starts to understand.

maybe he had been right about one thing.

he did need to know who he was without you.

not because loving you made him less himself, but because he had loved you so much, so completely, that somewhere along the way he had started using love as a place to hide. a safe place to hide from fear, from change, from the possibility of becoming someone you might not need.

so he lets you stay gone. and everyday, it feels impossible. but every day, he does it anyway. and somewhere in the middle of the cold, ordinary winter, jake feels the difference.

he can live without you, he is living without you. bad on some days, better on others, but he can, regardless. and that is what makes the truth clearer to him, because wanting you is not the same as needing you to hold him together, loving you is not the same as being unable to stand alone.

because you are a part of him in a way that he can still learn to survive without, but like a language he learned so deeply he still thinks in it sometimes, or like a song he knows by heart even without hearing it for years. like a home, not because he has nowhere else to go, but because even after he finally learns how to leave, some part of him still chooses to return one day.

and jake knows, if he ever gets the chance to tell you this, he knows he can't come back with just regret, because regret is not enough. missing you is not enough. even love, by itself, it not enough if all it does is ask you to carry the weight again.

so that's why jake keeps trying. not so you'll come back, even though a large part of him wakes up every day still wishing you could, but because if you ever do, he wants to be your someone who knows how to love you without making you responsible for holding him up. and even if you don't—

jake closes his eyes again. breathes through the ache.

even if you don't, then he still has to become that person anyways.

the holidays come eventually, which makes everything sting in a little more specific way, because this is the time of year jake usually takes you home. for three years in a row, you had been there. in his parents' kitchen, stealing pieces of food before dinner and pretending you weren't. on the couch with his cousins, arguing over a kid's movie, beside him at the dinner table, your knee pressed against his under the tablecloth, laughing at something his aunt said while jake sat there feeling stupidly proud that you fit into his life so easily.

this year, he goes home alone. his mom opens the door first, pulls him into a hug, and looks over his shoulder, still expecting you to be standing behind him with a bag in one hand and that polite, nervous smile you always had for the first five minutes before remembering everyone already loved you, already made space for you like you were always going to be there.

"just you?" she asks him gently.

jake holds the strap of his bag a little tighter, and for a second, he almost lies, because it would be too easy. too easy to say something like, oh she's busy this year, or visiting her family, or work stuff. something simple and normal. something that lets the idea of the two of you keep existing together in someone else's version of reality out there for just a little longer. but even he knows that wouldn't be fair and it definitely wouldn't be the healing he has been trying, miserably and imperfectly, to do. so instead, he swallows hard and looks at his mom with a sad smile.

"we're not together anymore," he says.

his mom's face changes and he doesn't try to ignore it this time. "oh, sweetheart," she says softly.

one by one, the rest of his family finds out too.

his aunt asks where you are while setting plates down. his cousins says your name too casually from the living room. his dad pauses for half a second before patting a hand gently on jake's shoulder and saying he's sorry in that quiet, steady way that makes jake want to be eight years old and cry to him again.

but regardless, each time, jake tells the truth. he doesn't tell the whole story, not every ugly detail, but just enough. yes, you guys broke up. yes, it's hard. yes, he misses her. he lets everyone look at him sadly, he lets everyone see his sadness, too. he lets the loss be real instead of hiding it behind some convenient lie, and he has to live in rooms where people know it now.

everything else happens anyways, like christmas dinner where he argues with his brother over who gets the corner piece of dessert. he opens gifts the next morning and laughs when his uncle gives him socks with his own face printed on it. he watches movies on the couch while the house gets warm and loud around him.

he doesn't pretend it doesn't hurt. he doesn't pretend he isn't aware of the empty space next to him where you used to sit with a blanket pulled up to your chin, whispering commentary into his ear until he almost choked trying not to laugh. he doesn’t pretend he doesn’t look in the mug cabinet and remember the ugly holiday mug you loved for no reason.

but he also doesn't shut down, because life is still happening. because his family is still there and his cousins are still annoying and his mom is still asking him if he wants more hot chocolate. because love, jake is starting to learn, does not become less real just because one version of it is gone.

jake goes back to the city in time for new year's, mostly because jay rents out the same rooftop every year for the countdown party, and jake has gone every year. before he met you, after he met you, while he dated you. and now, it'll be after he lost you. he goes anyways, because he knows that avoiding every place that might still have your finger print on it won't do anything good for him.

the city is freezing by the time he gets there, all sharp wind and wet pavement and people spilling out of restaurants in glittery dresses and jackets that are too thin, but laughing anyways because that's just how these things go.

jay meets him by the elevator with a drink in one hand and a look on his face that is trying very hard to not look surprised.

"you came," jay says, smiling.

jake gives him a look. "you invited me."

then jay's expression softens just a little, enough that jake knows what he's really asking. if he's okay, if he's ready, if this isn't going to be too much for much.

jake looks past him, toward the rooftop door where music and laughter is already spilling out into the hallway.

"i'm good," he says, nodding like it'll make his statement more convincing.

jay's brow lifts. jake exhales, then corrects himself.

"i'm not good," he says quietly. "but i'm okay enough."

jay then studies him for a second before nodding. "okay enough is solid."

"thanks."

"low bar," jay gives him a smile, "but we celebrate growth. i'm proud of you."

and jake gives him a genuine smile back.

the rooftop is exactly the same as it always is—string lights wrapped along the railing, heaters glowing red in the corners, a dj booth in the center and an open bar with far too many people tucked into the side. heeseung is already arguing with sunghoon near the speakers, and sunghoon is already wearing a party hat against his will.

jake takes a drink jay hands him, talks when people talk to him, laughs when sunghoon says something funny, lets heeseung drag him into a conversation with someone from work whose name jake immediately forgets and feels only mildly guilty about.

he doesn't scan the party for you right away. he notices the lights first, the skyline, the little plastic champagne glasses stacked too close to the edge of one of the tables. he notices the cold air biting at his knuckles and the loud music and the way midnight feels close.

but, eventually, he notices you.

he wasn't looking, but it's that part of him that still knows when you enter a room. you're standing near the far side of the rooftop, close to the railing, talking to jay's cousin with a drink held loosely in one hand. your coat is buttoned up against the cold, your hair moving slightly in the wind, your face turned toward the city lights.

jake goes still, because even after everything, even after all his trying, his body can't help but react that way. but this time isn't like before. this time isn't like the bar, when seeing you walk in felt like a punishment he earned. not like the party months ago, when jealously made him stupid. this was different.

it still hurt, of course. the sight of you still finds the softest place in him and presses down hard, but alongside that feeling is something else too, something close to relief. the kind of relief that isn't selfish, not the kind that thinks you being here means anything profound for him. just relief that you are here, that you are laughing at something and look less tense and that the world has held you and taken care of you even when he wasn't allowed to.

jake breathes in slowly. he just looks at you for one honest second from the distance and lets himself have it.

he misses you. he loves you. and for once, neither of those things has to become a demand. then, like you feel it too because of course you would, your eyes shift across the rooftop and land on him.

the noise around him dulls just slightly, and your expression changes, just barely. a flicker of surprise, then softening into something he can't name quite yet. but he just stays where he is anyways, and after a second, he gives you the smallest nod.

you look at him for a long moment. then, you give him the smallest smile back.

somewhere close to midnight, the rooftop starts to shift in that slow and natural way new year's eve parties tend to do. people shift toward the railing with their champagne in hand, someone turns the music down just enough for the dj's voice to cut through the cold air, announcing the ten-minute warning with too much enthusiasm and then people start pairing off without meaning to.

jay gets pulled into a conversation near the bar, heeseung disappears with two champagne glasses and jake just gives him a thumbs up of good luck, and sunghoon is arguing with someone about fireworks, someone who is most likely going to be the unfortunate individual who is going to kiss him in ten minutes.

and somehow, in the middle of all of it, jake's eyes find yours across the rooftop. but this time, he doesn't look away. you're standing near the far side of the crowd, one hand tucked into your coat sleeve, your face lit softly by the lights overhead. you look beautiful.

he loves how simple and true the thought is. how it doesn't arrive with panic this time, but just tenderness. just the ache of knowing, even after all this time, even after everything he ruined and everything he learned, his heart still knows exactly where to look.

so jake crosses the rooftop slowly.

he just walks towards you with his pulse beating hard and loud in this throat, weaving past laughing friends and drunk strangers and half-empty glasses and people holding up their phones towards the skyline.

you see him coming, and your shoulders tense slightly, but you don't leave, which he takes as a good sign. when he stops in front of you, the music is loud enough that he has to lean in just a little, close enough for you to see the exhaustion in his eyes, the faint redness there, the months he spent missing you without asking you to do anything about it.

"hey," he says quietly.

your throat moves. "hey."

for a second, neither of you says anything. then, because jake is still jake, and because his heart is currently trying to crawl out of his chest, he says the first honest thing he can manage.

“you look good.”

you pause for a moment, then give him a soft smile.  “you do too.”

he lets out a breath that nearly becomes a laugh. “i really don’t.”

and then the tension almost breaks right there, with that small flicker of something comforting and familiar falling in between the two of you.  your mouth trembles like you’re trying not to smile too much but also trying not to cry at the same time.

the music goes quiet again for a moment while the dj announces five minutes until midnight and the rooftop cheers.

jake glances toward the crowd, then back at you.

“can we go somewhere quieter?” he asks. then, quickly, softer, “only if you want to.”

you look at him for a moment and your eyes flicker to the skyline before back to him, and then you finally nod. 

jake leads you inside to the lounge just past the rooftop's glass doors, where it's empty now and the lights are dim and warm. through the large windows, the party continues outside in a blur of coats and gold lights and people waiting for the year to end. he closes the door behind you and all the noise goes muffled immediately. 

you stand a few feet apart in silence, arms wrapped around yourselves against the chill still clinging to your clothes, both of you reflected faintly in the glass.

then jake looks at you, and he really, really looks. and then for the first time in a long, long time, he lets himself be brave.

"i figured it out, by the way."

your eyes flick up to his as if in a quick second of shock before looking away just as quickly.

he swallows hard. "not everything. i don’t think anyone ever figures out everything. but what you asked me that night. what i wanted, why i left, why i kept coming back. all of it."

you don't say anything, your eyes now trained on something past him just so you don't have to look at him quite yet. he keeps going.

"i left you because i was scared," he says, voice low. "not because i stopped loving you or because you were holding me back, or because we were wrong. but because i loved you so much that i couldn't admit it and i turned it into something i thought i had to save both of us from." his voice cracks. "but i didn't."

you look up at him now, and your eyes shine immediately.

jake’s hands curl at his sides, like his body still wants to reach for you before he has earned the right.

"i was trying to control the ending," he stops, letting the words sit for a moment. "because some awful part of me was terrified that one day you would wake up and realize you didn't need me when i still needed you. that maybe you had become my whole life, but i was only part of yours and if you left first, i wouldn't know how to survive it. so i left first, i hurt you first, and then i convinced myself it was love because the truth sounded uglier."

a tear slips down your cheek, and jake sees it immediately and he almost stops. he almost stops, but he doesn't. he can't, not now, not after he spent a year missing you, hurting you, hurting himself, and hiding.

not when stopping would be easier for him, and the whole point is that he is done choosing what is easy for him.

"and then i kept doing it," he whispers. "i kept coming back to you in pieces i could get because being near you was the only time i didn't feel like i had ruined my own life completely. but it wasn't fair, i know it wasn't. i wanted the comfort of you without giving you the certainty you deserved."

somewhere beyond the glass, the dj's voice cuts through the music, muffled but clear enough, one minute left.

your lips part slightly, like you might say something, but jake shakes his head, eyes burning now.

"i’m not saying this because i expect you to forgive me tonight. i’m not saying it because it’s new year’s and everyone outside is about to kiss someone and i’m lonely. i’m not asking you to fix me. i’m not asking you to come back because i finally got hurt enough to say the right thing."

he takes a breath. then another. then he holds your gaze carefully.

"i'm saying it because you deserve to hear the truth from me. because i figured it out, and i couldn't let you go thinking my confusion meant you were ever easy to lose."

thirty seconds and people outside start gathering loudly, but neither of you move.

"i know how to be without you now," jake says, voice breaking around it, eyes glassy. "and i hate it. i really, really hate it, but i know how. i can wake up and live my life and stand in rooms where you’re missing and not make that your responsibility."

fifteen seconds.

his eyes search yours.

"but i look at you," he whispers, taking one small step closer, "and i still see my future."

your face crumples and jake wants to reach for you so badly his fingers twitch at his sides.

ten.

"not because i don’t have one without you," his voice breaks again, and he has to swallow hard, "but because every version of me that is honest, every version that isn’t scared and running and pretending, still chooses you. and not as a place to hide, not as someone to hold me together. just you."

five.

jake finally lifts his hand, slowly, carefully, letting it hover just beside yours, giving you every chance to step away.

four.

"i love you," he says, the words spilling out now in that quick way they do when it’s just the truth and he can’t stop it anymore. "i love you in a way i should’ve been brave enough to choose the first time. and if you can’t choose me back anymore, i’ll understand. i’ll hate it, but i’ll understand."

three.

your eyes drop to his hand, then back up to his face. and then finally, you reach for him, your fingers slipping into his, cold and trembling, and jake lets out a breath that sounds broken.

two.

“i love you,” you breathe, voice shaking, face wet. “and i never stopped choosing you. i just needed you to choose me back.”

one.

the rooftop erupts outside in loud cheers, fireworks bursting over the city, gold and red and blue spilling across the glass, lighting your face in flashes.

jake hesitates for one heartbreaking second, his forehead nearly touching yours now, his breath trembling against your mouth, like even now he's asking. even now, he's waiting. because after everything, after all the hurt and healing and polite smiles and quiet looks, after all the late night drives and one more times he had no right to ask for, he needs this part to be yours.

not taken, not assumed by him, but yours to choose.

and so you do.

you tilt your face up, and you kiss him. and it's barely anything at first, it's soft and a trembling press of your mouth to his, so light it almost feels like both of you are afraid to ask for more. but then jake kisses you back, just as gentle, and just as disbelieving. but then your fingers tighten in his and your other hand finds the front of his jacket and you lean closer, pressing yourself into his hold and then it's desperate in the quietest way. the kind that comes from two people choosing, after the long, long road behind them, to find their way back to one another.

he kisses you like this is something he should have been more careful with from the start, one hand holding you at the waist, the other rising to your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear he caused and is finally trying to deserve the chance to heal.

you kiss him back like you’ve been holding your breath for months. like anger and love and grief and relief all have nowhere else to go except the small, fragile space between you.

outside, people are screaming happy new year. people are kissing and hugging and spilling champagne onto the rooftop floor and laughing into the cold. 

inside, jake pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing unevenly, eyes wet. neither of your move, his thumb staying against your cheek, your fingers staying twisted in his jacket. 

and the year begins quietly between you. it’s not perfect, it’s not untouched, but it’s yours. 

"happy new year," he whispers.

you let out a tiny broken laugh, your fingers tightening like you’re still making sure he’s there. then you look up at him. 

"happy new year, jaeyun."

and this time, when you say his name, it sounds like coming back home. not because the long and complicated road behind you disappeared. it hasn’t, it will always be there.

but because, finally, he knows the way back.

꩜｡⊹ ࣪ ˖ as always,,,,ty for reading if you made it all the way here <3 MWAH

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“You ever think about it?” he asked one night, voice barely above a breath. “Like… for real. Kids. Us as parents.” You hummed, fingers stroking down the back of his neck. “All the time lately.” He lifted his head, eyes searching yours in the dim light. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” You smiled softly, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I think about little versions of you running around. I think about teaching them to ride bikes, reading them bedtime stories, watching them grow up with you as their dad. It… it makes me happy. Really happy.” Jake’s breath hitched. He swallowed hard, eyes glistening. “I think about it every fucking second. About coming home and hearing tiny feet running toward me, calling me ‘Dad.’ About seeing you hold our baby for the first time. About building a family with you...” He shifted up, hovering over you, forearms braced on either side of your head. “I want it so bad, baby. I want… everything. With you.” You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the damp corners of his eyes. “Then let’s do it.” He froze. “You mean…?” “No more pills,” you whispered. “No more careful. I’m ready. I want to try—for real. I want to have your babies, Jake. As many as we’re lucky enough to get.” For a heartbeat he just stared at you—eyes wide, shining, disbelieving. Then a broken, joyful sound tore from his throat and he crushed his mouth to yours. His hands shook as they framed your face, tears slipping down his cheeks and onto yours. “You’re serious?” he choked out between kisses. “You really want this? With me?” “With you,” you said firmly, pulling him closer. “Only with you.” He laughed—wet, shaky, euphoric—and buried his face in your neck, arms wrapping tight around you. “Fuck… okay. Okay..” He kissed your throat, your jaw, your lips again. “I’m gonna take such good care of you. Every step. I’m there. I promise.” You smiled against his mouth. “I know you will.” He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look—then pressed his forehead to yours. “From tonight… we’re ready. We’re trying. No holding back.” You nodded, heart pounding. “No holding back.”

Jake's fixation on your breasts turned into full-blown worship. He'd nuzzle into your chest like a puppy, murmuring "just a taste, baby," before latching on. Mornings started with him suckling lazily while you stirred awake, evenings ended the same way. He loved how they felt in his hands, soft and heavy, and he'd knead them gently at first, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened, then tug and pinch until you squirmed. No bra was safe around him; he'd slip his hand under your shirt in public if he thought he could get away with it, just for a quick feel.

It got to the point where Jake started falling asleep with your nipple in his mouth every night. He'd curl up against you, one arm draped over your waist, lips sealed around the peak, suckling softly like it was the most comforting thing in the world. 

He claimed it helped him sleep better.

Your body became a canvas for Jake's love bites and bruises. He marked you everywhere—neck, collarbone, thighs, but especially your breasts. Purple hickeys bloomed around your nipples like petals, faint teeth marks from when he got too eager. You'd complain about the sensitivity, how even the brush of fabric made you wince, but Jake would just give you those big, pleading puppy eyes, whining "please, mama, just a little? They look so pretty like this."

Jake never bought condoms again after that first night. Every time was bare now, skin to skin, and he always finished inside, filling you up with thick, hot loads. His stamina quadrupled—raw felt too good, too intimate, and he'd keep going round after round, cumming so many times you'd lose count. He'd thrust deep, grinding as he emptied himself, whispering "take it all, mama—keep it in." Sessions lasted hours; he'd pull out just to watch his cum leak, then push back in to add more. It always ended with you shaking, spent, your stomach full and protruding, bloated from the sheer volume.

Jake loved cock warming more than anything—keeping his dick buried inside you, plugged up so his cum stayed deep. He'd pull you onto his lap after sex, still half-hard, and just sit there, feeling you clench around him sporadically. "Feels so good, mama..." It rarely stayed innocent; one of you would break composure—maybe you'd shift and grind, or he'd twitch inside you—and it'd escalate. Either he'd flip you over and fuck you rough, pounding until you screamed, or you'd take control, riding him slow and deep until he whined and begged for mercy.

You started teasing Jake more, knowing it made him feral. After he came home, you'd waltz around the apartment in just lingerie—lacy bras that pushed your tits up, tiny thongs that barely covered anything. He'd freeze in the doorway, eyes darkening, cock hardening instantly. "Fuck, baby—you trying to kill me?" It always ended with him grabbing you, slamming you against the wall, ripping the lingerie aside, and fucking you right there, leaving you breathless and dripping.

Jake actually bought a plug online—a sleek, jeweled one designed to keep his cum inside after he fucked you full. "Gonna keep you plugged up all day, mama—womb nice and full." He'd slide it in after cumming, watching with hooded eyes as it sealed everything in. You'd feel the pressure, the fullness, and he'd get hard again just from the sight.

You’d bought the strawberry-flavored condoms on a whim during a late-night pharmacy run. Not because you actually wanted protection—you were already off birth control—but because the idea of strawberry sounded fun. Playful. A little dirty-sweet. You pictured Jake’s face when he tasted it on you later, and you couldn’t resist slipping the box into the basket. 

That night you waited until he came home and greeted him in the living room wearing nothing but one of his oversized hoodies, the hem barely skimming your thighs. The second he saw you, his bag hit the floor and his eyes darkened. “Missed you,” he growled, already crossing the room in three strides. You didn’t let him kiss you yet. Instead you reached into the hoodie pocket, pulled out the shiny foil pack, and held it up between two fingers like a prize. “Brought you something fun.” He squinted at the label. “Strawberry?” His brows shot up, then a slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “Kinky.” 

You stepped closer, pressing the pack against his chest. “Thought you’d like to taste me with dessert.”Jake groaned low in his throat, already hard in his sweats. But when you started tugging at his waistband, he caught your wrist. “Wait. You want me to actually wear it now?” You tilted your head, batting your lashes the way you knew undid him. “Just for fun. Please?” You arched your back a little, pushing your tits forward under until the fabric stretched tight across your nipples. “I’ll make it worth it.”

He stared—first at your chest, then at the pack, then back at your pleading eyes. You saw the exact second he broke: pupils blowing wide, Adam’s apple bobbing hard. “Fuck,” he muttered, snatching the pack from your hand. “You’re evil.”

You grinned, already dropping to your knees. You tugged his sweats down just enough to free him—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You rolled the condom on, dragging your nails lightly down his shaft as you smoothed the latex over him. The faint strawberry scent hit the air, and Jake hissed through his teeth. “Smells like candy,” he rasped. “Gonna taste like it too?” You stood, backing toward the couch. “Come find out.”

He followed like a predator—eyes locked on you, cock bobbing with every step. You climbed onto the couch on all fours, hoodie rucked up to your waist, ass presented. Jake didn’t waste time. He lined up, rubbed the latex-covered head through your folds once, twice—then thrust in deep with a guttural groan. One thrust. Two. You moaned, pushing back to meet him, already greedy for more. But on the third thrust something felt… different. Hotter. Thicker. No drag of latex. Just skin—velvet-smooth, pulsing, bare. Your brain caught up a second too late. “Jake—wait—”

He had slipped out barely, just the tip still kissing your entrance and ripped the condom off in one violent yank, and slammed back inside you raw. The sudden fullness made your vision white out. You gasped, hands scrabbling at the couch cushions. “Jake—the condom—it’s—” He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. His hips snapped harder, faster, pounding into you with punishing force. The discarded condom dangled from your entrance at first—latex tip hanging halfway out, then with the next brutal thrust it slipped further inside, the ring catching briefly on your rim before disappearing completely.

You tried to shout again—“Jake—it’s inside me!”—but he only fucked you rougher, hands clamping on your hips so hard you knew you’d bruise. “Don’t care,” he snarled, voice wrecked. “Need you raw—fuck—can’t stop now—” He was too far gone—eyes glazed, mouth open, hips pistoning like he was chasing something. Every thrust shoved the condom deeper, the thin material crumpling and sliding further into your slick heat until it was gone—lost inside you somewhere between your cervix and the spot that made your toes curl.

You gave up trying to stop him. It felt too good. You came hard around him, walls fluttering and clenching, moaning brokenly into the cushions. He followed right after—growling your name as he flooded you deep, hips grinding in tight circles to push every drop where he wanted it most, before pulling out just enough to watch his cum leak out around the base of his cock, then slamming back in, chasing the wet, filthy sounds. Only after cumming once more did he finally still—panting, trembling, cock still twitching inside you. He blinked slowly, like he was coming back to himself. Then his eyes widened. “…Shit. The condom.”

You laughed breathlessly, still impaled on him. “Yeah. It’s… inside me.”

Jake groaned—half mortified, half turned on—and carefully pulled out. A thick stream of cum followed, but no condom. He stared at your swollen, dripping entrance, then reached down with two fingers, sliding them inside you. You moaned instantly—still sensitive, clenching around the intrusion. He curled them, searching, until he hooked the latex ring and slowly tugged. The condom emerged—crumpled, soaked, stretched—clinging to his fingers. You clenched involuntarily around nothing, whimpering at the drag. Jake stared at it like it had personally betrayed him, then flung it across the room with a disgusted noise. “Never again,” he muttered, already hardening again. “No more fucking condoms.”

You reached back, spreading yourself for him. “Promise?”

He growled, lined up, and thrust back in.

The pack of strawberry condoms ended up in the trash that same night. You never bought another one.

Jake's love for having your pussy on his face became an outright addiction—he'd beg for it daily, those big, pleading puppy eyes locking onto yours with such need that it was impossible to say no. "Just a taste, baby—please, let me have you," he'd whine, hands already reaching for your thighs as he laid back on the bed or couch, guiding you to straddle his face. Once you were settled, he'd devour you voraciously, like a man starved for days: strong arms wrapping around your thighs to lock you in place, pulling you down harder so you couldn't escape even if you wanted to. His big nose pressed perfectly against your clit, rubbing in firm circles as he breathed you in deep, the sensation sending jolts through your body while his tongue delved inside you—long, probing thrusts that curled just right, lapping up every drop of your arousal. He'd moan into you constantly, vibrations humming through your core. "Ride my face, baby—use me." His hands would grip your ass, spreading you wider, encouraging you to grind down harder, faster, until your thighs quivered and you came shuddering on his tongue, slick coating his chin and cheeks. Even after, he'd keep licking softly, cleaning you up with gentle laps, whispering how addicted he was to your flavor.

Jake was an absolute sucker for 69—it drove him wild, the perfect storm of giving and receiving that left him trembling. He'd initiate it often, flipping you around on the bed with eager hands, positioning your pussy right over his face while your mouth hovered above his throbbing cock. The dual sensation was overwhelming for him: his tongue lapping hungrily at your folds, delving deep to fuck you with slow thrusts while, your lips sealed around his length, tongue swirling around the head. He'd thrust up into your throat occasionally, hips bucking helplessly when you teased the tip, but mostly he'd let you control the pace, his hands on your ass spreading you wider, fingers digging in to keep you grinding on his face. 

Jake adored when you sucked him off, but especially when you teased him mercilessly—it turned him into a whining, moaning mess. He'd lie back, hands fisting the sheets or your hair, eyes locked on you as you took your time: starting with slow, feather-light licks along his shaft like it was a lollipop, tracing every vein with the tip of your tongue before swirling lazy circles around the head, tasting the salty precum beading there. "Please, baby—deeper," he'd whine, hips bucking up involuntarily, desperate for more friction. You'd pump the base with your hand in firm strokes, kitten-licking the slit teasingly, letting strings of saliva connect your lips to his tip when you pulled back. He'd moan loud and unrestrained, head thrown back, body arching as you edged him closer and closer, only to slow down just before he tipped over. Sometimes you'd deepthroat him suddenly, taking him all the way until he hit the back of your throat, making him cry out in surprise and pleasure, but then pull off to tease again. He loved the control you had over him, the way you could reduce him to pathetic pleas, and it'd always end with him cumming hard down your throat or on your tongue, gasping your name like a prayer.

Jake absolutely adored watching you walk around the house plugged up after he'd fucked you full—your stomach sticking out just a little under your crop top from all the cum trapped inside, a visible reminder of his claim on you. It got him rock hard in seconds; his eyes tracking your every move as you went about your day.

Jake was always heartbreakingly sad at the end of the day when you finally took out the plug, his eyes widening in dismay as he watched his cum rush out in a thick, creamy stream. "All that wasted… fuck, it breaks my heart," he'd whine, voice cracking like he'd lost something precious. As a special treat one night, you decided to go to bed still plugged and full. It made him ecstatic—eyes lighting up, whispering "Thank you, baby—feels so right." Once became twice when you saw how happy it made him, then three times, and eventually it was normal: falling asleep with his cum sealed deep inside you, his arm draped over you protectively, dreaming of the family it might create.

Your cunt was perpetually puffy and sore from the constant, relentless use—clit swollen to the point of throbbing with every brush of fabric or accidental graze of your thighs, outer lips red and inflamed like they’d been kissed too hard for too long, inner walls tender and sensitive from being stretched open, until even the slightest clench made you wince. Walking felt different now—every step sent a dull, delicious ache through you. Sitting was worse; the pressure against your swollen folds made you shift and squirm, biting your lip to keep from moaning in public. But Jake? Jake looked at your abused pussy like it was the most beautiful, precious thing he’d ever laid eyes on. The moment he noticed you wincing or gingerly adjusting your position, he’d drop to his knees in front of you with that expression that always melted you.

“Poor baby,” he’d coo, voice low and syrupy, hands gentle on your thighs as he eased them apart. “Look at you—all worked up and pretty for me.” He’d lean in close, breath warm against your heated skin, and start with feather-light kisses along the crease of your thigh, then higher—soft presses of his lips to the inflamed outer lips, careful not to press too hard. You’d shiver every time, body jerking despite the tenderness, and he’d hush you sweetly: “Shhh, I’ve got you—just gonna kiss it better.” He wasn’t really sorry, though. The apologies were just a sweet little ploy to get his mouth on you again. He’d spread you wide with careful thumbs, admiring the puffiness, the redness, the way your clit peeked out swollen and glistening. “So fucking gorgeous,” he’d murmur, almost to himself, before dragging the flat of his tongue in one slow, soothing lap from your entrance to your clit. Soft at first—slow, gentle circles around the sensitive bud, barely touching, letting you adjust. Then deeper—tongue dipping inside to trace the tender walls, lapping up the slick that never seemed to stop leaking from you. “Gonna kiss it all away, baby,” he’d promise between passes, voice muffled against your folds. 

You’d come like that more times than you could count—shaking, whimpering, thighs clamping around his head while he drank you down like it was his only job. And when you finally collapsed, boneless and oversensitive, he’d crawl up your body, kiss you deep so you could taste yourself, and murmur, “See? All better now,” even though you both knew he’d be back between your legs in a few hours.

Somewhere between the endless nights of desperate sex and the quiet mornings when Jake would wake you with slow thrusts just to “make sure it takes,” he started getting creative. He never told you outright—he knew you’d laugh or scold him—but he began sneaking fertility-boosting supplements into your food. Every bite you took was carefully calculated; he’d watch with hawk-like focus while you ate, smiling innocently when you complimented how good everything tasted lately. He never told you. He didn’t have to. The results would speak for themselves.

He kept meticulous tabs on your cycle—phone synced with dates, symptoms, everything. The moment ovulation hit, he turned into a man possessed. He’d make sure you were plugged up with his cum for the majority of your fertile window—thick silicone plug slid in right after he’d fucked you full. “Gotta keep it all in, mama,” he’d whisper, kissing the small swell of your lower belly even when it was just cum bloating you. “Can’t waste a drop when you’re ripe like this.”

It helped—god, did it help—that your hormones went haywire during ovulation. You became horny as fuck for him—insatiable, needy, practically climbing him the second he walked through the door. 

Jake had an obsession with grinding against you, filthy drags that made you both lose your minds without ever fully giving in. He’d spread your cheeks wide with greedy hands, and slide his dick back and forth through your slick folds like he was painting himself with you. The head would catch on your entrance every few strokes—teasing, dipping just inside before retreating—then glide up to nudge your clit until it throbbed and swelled under the pressure. He loved coating himself in the messy mix of his leaking precum and your arousal—slick strings stretching between his shaft and your pussy every time he pulled back, obscene little webs that broke and reformed with each grind.

Sometimes he’d get bolder—press the flushed tip against your asshole just to feel you tense, your whole body clenching in surprise and heat. He’d laugh low and dark, then slide back down to tease your entrance again, spreading the mess, marking you until you were dripping down your thighs and begging for him to just fuck you already.

One night he had your knees spread wide on the bed, chest pressed to the mattress, ass high in the air while he gripped your hips, fucking you with long, punishing strokes that slapped wetly against your skin. 

He started slow, but the longer he went, the more disheveled he became. His breathing turned whiny, hands shaking on your hips, thrusts losing rhythm as something darker crept into his voice. “Why… fuck… why aren’t you pregnant yet?” he slurred, voice cracking with frustration and need. “I’ve filled you up so many times… every night… every fucking day… and still nothing?” He picked up speed, cock slamming deep, hips snapping against your ass with bruising force. “Should be round already… carrying my baby…”

You whined overwhelmed, trying to push your hips back to slow him down, hand reaching blindly behind you to press against his thigh. “Jake—slow down—too much—”

He slapped your hand away, growling low in his throat. “No. Stay still.” His palm came down on the back of your head, pushing your face deep into the pillow, muffling your moans. He drilled into you, cock pistoning so deep you felt it in your throat, balls slapping wetly against your clit with every brutal thrust. “Take it—take every drop—please—”

Your ears were ringing—high-pitched whine drowning out everything but the wet slap of skin, the creak of the bed, his breathing. The pillow muffled your cries; you could barely breathe, face pressed deep, lungs burning, but the angle had him hitting that spot inside you over and over until your vision whited out. You came hard, gushing around him, walls fluttering desperately while he kept pounding, chasing his own release. 

He came with a broken shout—hips slamming forward one last time, cock pulsing thick and hot as he flooded you deep. Rope after rope painted your walls, spilling out around his base only for him to grind in tighter, fucking it back inside with shallow, thrusts. “Stay—fuck—stay in there… don’t you dare leak out…” He collapsed over you, chest heaving, hands sliding up to cradle your belly like he could will it to happen right then. His lips found the back of your neck—soft, shaky kisses—voice wrecked and small. “Sorry… got carried away… just—fuck—I want it so bad. Want you pregnant.. Want to see you round with my baby...”

You reached back weakly, found his hand, laced your fingers through his. “Me too,” you whispered into the pillow, voice hoarse. “Me too.”

After a few intense rounds of him fucking you full—cumming deep inside multiple times—you'd become so pliant, mind blissfully empty, body limp and malleable like putty in his hands. Everything but Jake's dick faded away; you'd beg for it in soft, slurred whispers as he manhandled you effortlessly: flipping you onto your stomach, spreading your legs wide, positioning you however he wanted. "That's it, mama—take it all," he'd whisper, sliding back in slow and deep, loving how you just let him, body yielding completely, moans turning into contented sighs as he filled you again.

For his birthday, you surprised him with the ultimate gift: three positive pregnancy tests laid out on the bed, a tiny baby pacifier beside them, and a shirt emblazoned with "World's Best Dad." His eyes widened, tears welling instantly as he processed it, then he was on you—kissing you fiercely, whispering "Thank you—thank you" endlessly.

Once the pregnancy tests came back positive and the reality settled in that Jake had actually succeeded in putting a baby inside you, his obsession with keeping you “full” reached an entirely new level of devotion. The plug became non-negotiable on certain days—sometimes two, three, even four days in a row when he was feeling particularly possessive. He’d carefully slide the smooth silicone toy inside you right after pulling out from yet another session, sealing every last drop of his cum deep where it belonged.

You’d go about your day feeling the constant pressure. Walking felt different, sitting felt different; even the simple act of bending to pick up something would make you aware of the fullness, the faint ache, the way your body had to adjust. Your stomach would distend just enough under loose tops or dresses to be noticeable if someone looked closely—soft, rounded, like an early hint of the bump that was coming. Jake loved it. He’d catch you in the hallway or kitchen and without a word he’d back you against the nearest wall or counter, flip up your shirt, and drop to his knees to kiss and nuzzle the slight curve.

Sometimes the mood would strike him mid-day—he’d pull you into the bedroom (it was the laundry room once), ease the plug out with careful fingers, replace it with his cock in one smooth glide, and fuck you until he added another thick load. Afterward he’d slide the plug right back in, sealing everything with a satisfied groan. “There we go—nice and full again.” He’d rub slow circles over the distended swell, eyes gleaming with pride, like he was marking territory no one else could ever touch.

Pregnancy turned Jake’s need to care for you into something borderline compulsive—obsessive, almost ritualistic. Nowhere was that more obvious than at mealtimes. Every single meal became an event: big, lavish, overflowing plates and bowls carefully prepared by him with the single-minded focus of someone feeding a goddess. The portions were always generous—far more than you’d normally eat—but Jake would sit you down at the table (or in bed on lazy mornings), pull his chair close, and begin feeding you bite by bite, watching with rapt attention as your lips closed around each piece. “Open up, baby,” he’d coo softly, voice low and coaxing. “Gotta keep you strong for our little one—open wider, that’s my good girl.” Sometimes—quietly, guiltlessly—he still crushed a fertility pill or two into the food. Sue him. He wanted every advantage. 

“One more, mama—you’re still hungry, I can tell,” he’d murmur when you tried to push the plate away, voice gentle but firm.

You’d whine—“Jake, I’m full”—but he’d shush you sweetly, thumb pressing lightly against your lower lip. “Shhh, no you’re not. Our babies need more. Open up for me.” If you turned your head he’d gently cup your jaw, guiding you back, coaxing your mouth open for another bite, then another, then another— until the plates and bowls were scraped clean. Only then would he wipe the corners of your mouth with a soft napkin, lean in to kiss you and slide his warm palm over your rounded belly, rubbing slow circles. “Such a good mom,” he’d praise, voice thick with pride and adoration. “Look at you—eating so well, keeping them strong. I’m so proud of you, baby.”

Sometimes he’d lean down and kiss the swell, whispering to the life inside, “Mommy’s taking such good care of you—eating all her food like a good mama.” Then he’d pull you into his lap (as much as your belly allowed), hands roaming, already hard against your ass, ready to reward you for being so obedient.

Jake became your personal 24/7 craving butler during pregnancy—no request was too strange, too late, too ridiculous. The second you stirred at 2 a.m. and murmured what you wanted, he was already rolling out of bed, pulling on sweatpants, kissing your forehead with a sleepy “On it, mama,” before disappearing into the night. He’d drive to the nearest 24-hour convenience store or diner, sometimes calling ahead to make sure they had what you needed, then return triumphant with bags.

He’d crawl back into bed smelling faintly of cold night air, setting the tray on your lap with that lopsided, hazy-eyed grin that never quite faded when he looked at you. “Anything for you and the baby,” he’d say every time, voice thick with love, before sliding in behind you so you could lean against his chest while you ate. One hand would always rest protectively on your bump, thumb rubbing slow circles, feeling for any little kicks or flutters as if the baby was thanking him too. Sometimes you’d fall asleep mid-bite, head lolling against his shoulder, and he’d just hold the plate steady, content to stay awake as long as you needed him.

Jake treated the baby name list like a sacred project. He bought a small leather-bound notebook specifically for it—pages divided neatly into “Boys” and “Girls,” each entry meticulously written in his neat handwriting: name, origin, meaning, why he liked it, how it sounded with your last name, whether it went well with potential sibling names. He’d spend lazy Sunday afternoons lying with his head in your lap, notebook open on his chest, hand resting on your bump as he read them aloud in a soft, thoughtful voice. “What about Jun-seo for a boy?” Or “For a girl—maybe Min-seo?” He’d pause after each one to gauge your reaction, brushing kisses along your stomach between suggestions. The list grew to dozens of names, some crossed out after you wrinkled your nose, others starred with little hearts when you both loved them.

The “no underwear at home” rule was non-negotiable once your pregnancy progressed and your body started changing in ways that drove Jake wild. At first you protested—laughing, calling him ridiculous—but the way his eyes darkened and his cock visibly twitched every time you walked around in nothing but one of his oversized shirts made resistance impossible.

He loved the easy access: coming home to find you bent over the counter reaching for something, shirt riding up to expose you completely—he’d be behind you in seconds, sliding in deep with one smooth thrust. Or lounging on the couch watching TV, legs spread casually, and he’d drop to his knees between them without warning, eating you out slow and thorough before fucking you right there.

The moment your bump turned big enough to really show, Jake turned downright feral during sex. He’d position you on your back or side—anything that let him see and touch the swell—and his hands would splay wide over it obsessively, palms warm. The sight of his large hands cradling the life he put inside you while he fucked you raw sent him over the edge faster than anything else.

Jake declared eating you out his official “pregnancy relaxation technique”—a daily (sometimes twice-daily) ritual he insisted was essential for your health and the baby’s. “Gotta keep you stress-free, mama,” he’d say, already guiding you to lie back with pillows propping up your hips and bump. He’d spread your thighs wide, hands firm on the backs of your knees, and dive in like it was his sole purpose in life.

His nose pressed perfectly against your clit from the start, rubbing in firm circles as he breathed you in deep; his tongue would delve inside you with long, slow strokes, curling to hit every sensitive spot while his lips sucked gently on your folds. He’d build you up, fingers slipping inside to curl against your g-spot—until you were shaking through orgasm after orgasm, thighs trembling around his head, hands fisting the sheets. He never stopped until you were boneless and blissed out, then he’d crawl up to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue while he rubbed slow circles over your bump. “See? All relaxed now,” he’d murmur smugly, already rock hard from how sweetly you came for him.

Jake couldn’t contain his excitement—he boasted about becoming a dad to literally anyone who would listen. “I’m gonna be a dad!” At the grocery store checkout: “Yeah, my girlfriend's pregnant—gonna be like the best dad ever.” Friends, family, strangers in the park—he’d grin like an idiot, hand always finding your bump to rub it proudly while he rattled off details: due date, names they were considering, how active the baby already was. His eyes would shine with pure, boyish joy every time someone congratulated him, and he’d pull you closer, kissing your temple.

Pregnant you turned Jake into the most whipped man alive—he did everything you wanted with those love-drunk eyes, staring at you like you personally hung the moon and stars. Need a foot rub at 2 a.m.? He’s already kneeling. Craving something ridiculous? He’s halfway out the door. Mood swing tears? He’s holding you, rocking you, whispering how perfect you are. He’d drop to his knees to tie your shoes when your bump got too big, kiss your stretch marks like they were treasures, carry you bridal-style to bed when you were tired. You were his entire world, and he made sure you felt it every single second.

Every evening without fail, Jake would kneel at your feet like it was a sacred duty. He’d lift your swollen ankles onto his lap, thumbs digging into the arches with practiced pressure, working out every knot, massaging lotion into your skin, eyes flicking up to watch you rub your stomach with that smug little smirk you wore when you knew you had him completely wrapped around your finger. Sometimes he’d get so lost in worshipping your feet that he’d end up hard and leaking just from the sight of you relaxed and round and smug above him—he never complained, just kept rubbing until you sighed in bliss.

You learned very quickly how much power pregnancy gave you over Jake—and you abused it shamelessly. “Babe, my back hurts—rub it.” He’d drop everything. “I want ice cream.” He’d give it to you in 2 seconds. “Carry me to the couch.” He’d scoop you up without hesitation. You’d ask for ridiculous things—back scratches in specific patterns, him singing to your bump, dancing silly dances in the kitchen just to make you laugh—and he’d comply instantly, no questions, no complaints. He never once complained. Never rolled his eyes. Never sighed like it was a chore. He genuinely believed you deserved the world and he was more than happy to deliver it on his knees, with his voice, with every beat of his heart. Every time you asked for something—big or small, reasonable or absurd—his eyes would light up like you’d just given him a gift. “Right away, mama. Anything you want.”

Jake booked the trips without telling you. A private villa by a white-sand beach accessible only by you, no other guests in sight. Pure, uninterrupted privacy. You cried when he showed you the plane tickets—happy, hormonal tears—then kissed him so hard he almost dropped his phone.

The flight was first-class luxury: extra legroom, endless snacks, a blanket big enough to cocoon you both. Jake held your hand the whole time, rubbing your bump.

The villa was paradise. Open-air design—ocean breeze drifting through sheer curtains, waves lapping gently against the stilts below. The bed was massive—king-sized, crisp white sheets, pillows everywhere. Jake called room service the moment you arrived: fresh tropical fruit platters, chilled coconut water, grilled food, mango sticky rice—everything you wanted. He fed you bite by bite on the private deck—watching the sunset paint the sky pink and orange—then stripped you until you were bare under the warm night air.

He worshipped you every single night.

His hands roamed your belly, your hips, your thighs. Then lower—kissing down your sternum, over the swell of your bump, until he was between your legs, spreading you wide on the crisp sheets. He ate you out like it was his only purpose, until you were shaking and crying out into the sound of the waves. He’d mark you everywhere: hickeys on your inner thighs, love bites along your collarbone, soft bruises on your hips from gripping too hard while he fucked you slow on the giant bed.

In the huge bathtub he’d pull you onto his lap, water sloshing around you, and fill you again—slow rocks that made the water ripple, hands cradling your belly while he whispered how beautiful you looked carrying his baby. In the private pool under the stars he’d press you against the edge, legs wrapped around his waist, thrusting deep while the water lapped at your skin. And one unforgettable afternoon in the ocean itself—waves gentle around you—he held you up, legs locked around his hips, and fucked you in the warm saltwater, kissing you through every moan until you both came trembling against each other.

You walked around the island in tiny sundresses—flowing fabrics that clung to your curves when the breeze caught them. Jake drooled every time, hands constantly reaching to touch your hip, your lower back, the swell of your stomach. 

He showered you with compliments constantly—everywhere, all the time. 

In the morning while you brushed your teeth: “God, you're gorgeous.” 

At lunch on the deck: “You’re glowing, baby.” 

During a sunset walk on the beach: “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

One afternoon you wandered into a tiny antique vase shop in a nearby village—humid air thick with the scent of old wood and incense, shelves lined with delicate porcelain and colorful glass. You wore a thin summer dress—white cotton, spaghetti straps, the fabric clinging to your curves from the heat, bump visible, breasts straining the neckline. Jake followed behind you like a lovesick puppy, eyes glued to the sway of your hips, the way the dress rode up your thighs when you reached for something high.

You turned suddenly, a mischievous grin on your face, holding up a small vintage sign you’d snatched off a shelf: DON’T TOUCH. You held it between you like a shield, eyebrows raised.

Jake looked at the sign. Then at you. Then back at the sign. He flung it from your hand onto a nearby table with zero regard and pulled you flush against him, hands gripping your hips, mouth crashing onto yours in a deep, hungry kiss. You laughed into it—muffled, delighted—while his tongue swept in, claiming you right there between the shelves. He tasted like the mango smoothie you’d shared earlier, smelled like sunscreen and salt and him.

When he finally pulled back—both of you breathing hard—he rested his forehead against yours, voice low and rough. “Can’t not touch you, mama. Not when you look like this. Not ever.”

You grinned, rubbed your bump against him teasingly. “Good thing I like being touched.”

He groaned and kissed you again, softer this time, before leading you out of the shop with his hand possessive on your lower back, already planning how he’d worship you the second you got back to the villa.

Jake made sure you never held a single suitcase during the entire trip. He carried everything while you were only allowed your purse. When you teased him once—“Why aren’t you holding my hand?”—he froze mid-step, looked at you like you’d slapped him, then immediately redistributed the bags between both arms, freeing one hand to lace his fingers with yours. He lifted your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles softly, then pressed it to his chest over his heart. “Forgive me, my queen,” he said, dead serious, eyes wide with mock horror. “What was I thinking? Please excuse my unacceptable behavior.”

You burst out laughing—rubbing your bump with your free hand—while he grinned like an idiot, proud of himself for fixing the “problem.”

During one of the quieter afternoons at a resort Jake surprised you with a full spa day he’d arranged right there in your private suite. He started by running a warm bath—jasmine and coconut oil, bubbles piled high, candles flickering along the edges. He helped you undress slowly, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered. He eased you into the water, then knelt beside the tub and washed your hair himself—strong fingers massaging your scalp until you sighed and melted against the edge. He scrubbed your back, your arms, your legs, thumbs digging into every knot until you were boneless and humming with relaxation.

When the water cooled he lifted you out, a towel wrapped around you like you were precious cargo—and led you to the bedroom, where he’d laid out fresh sheets and warmed massage oil. He had you lie face-down first (pillows propped under your chest and hips to keep your belly comfortable), then spent nearly an hour working every muscle: long strokes down your spine, deep pressure into your lower back, gentle kneading along your hips and thighs. 

Afterward he fed you fresh fruit while you lay there boneless and glowing, still naked on the sheets. He popped pieces into your mouth one by one, eyes soft and adoring. 

“I made a dinner reservation tonight. That little beachfront place we walked past yesterday. Thought you might wanna dress up a bit… It's nice.”

You raised an eyebrow but smiled. “Okay. I can do nice.”

You went all out—because why not? A flowing, off-the-shoulder maxi dress in soft ivory that clung lovingly to your bump and flared over your hips, hair loose and wavy from the salt air, light makeup that made your eyes pop and your lips look kiss-bitten. When you stepped out of the bathroom, Jake—already dressed in a crisp white linen shirt and dark slacks—actually stumbled backward a step, hand flying to his chest like you’d shot him. “Fuck,” he breathed, eyes wide and glassy. “Mama… you’re… holy...” He looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. You grinned, did a slow turn so the dress swirled around your legs, bump proudly on display.

“Too much?” you teased.

He crossed the room in two strides, pulled you into his arms, and kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. “Never,” he rasped against your lips. “I’m gonna lose my mind tonight.”

Dinner was magical—private table right by the sand, waves lapping a few feet away, candles flickering, string lights overhead. He fed you bites of grilled chicken, salad, rice—watching you with that same dazed, heart-eyed stare. You talked and laughed and stole kisses between courses, his hand never leaving yours.

After dessert he suggested a walk—“Just along the beach, clear our heads.” You agreed, dress fluttering in the breeze, his arm around your waist.

He led you down a quiet path lit by small lanterns—away from the main resort, toward a secluded corner where the beach curved private and golden. When you turned the bend you froze.

Roses—hundreds of them—scattered in a path leading to a giant heart made entirely of roses. Candles flickered everywhere—tiny tea lights in glass holders forming a glowing circle around the heart. In the center, a wooden sign hung between two low palm trees: Will You Marry Me?

You turned to Jake—tears already blurring your vision—and found him down on one knee, velvet box open in his shaking hands. 

“I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you.” Jake’s voice cracked on the first word, the ring box trembled slightly in his open palm, but his gaze never wavered from yours—wide, shining, terrified and hopeful all at once.

“When I walked into the room.. And saw you laughing at something Sunoo said…I swear my heart stopped. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to. I knew right then—before you even said a word to me—that you were it. That you were going to ruin me in the best way possible.” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, tears already clinging to his lashes. “And then you did. You ruined me, baby. You turned my whole world upside down and made it better every single day. You laughed at my dumb jokes when no one else would. You believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. You made me want to be better. Stronger. Someone worthy of standing next to you.” His free hand reached for yours—fingers shaking as he laced them together, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of your skin.

“You're giving me a family. Not just the dream of one—the real, beautiful thing. Carrying our first baby—our little miracle.. Giving me the joy of being a dad. You made me whole.” His voice broke completely then—rough, thick, tears finally spilling over. “You’re growing a piece of us right here—” His other hand lifted, trembling, and pressed gently to the soft swell of your belly, palm flat over the life you were building together. “—and every time I see your body change to make room.. I fell in love with you all over again. You’re so strong, baby. So beautiful. So fucking incredible. I look at you—at this life we’re making—and I still can’t believe you chose me. That you let me be the one who gets to love you like this. That you trust me with your heart, with our kids, with forever.” He took a ragged breath, tears streaming freely now. 

“I can’t imagine another sunrise without waking up next to you. I can’t imagine another night without holding you close, without kissing your forehead and whispering how much I love you until you fall asleep. I can’t imagine raising our babies without you there to show them what real love looks like. You’re my best friend. My home. My safe place. My everything. And I don’t want to spend one more second of my life without you as my wife.”

He opened the velvet box with shaking fingers. Inside, the diamond caught every flicker of candlelight—big, brilliant, surrounded by a delicate halo of smaller stones, simple but breathtaking, just like you.

“So…” His voice dropped to a raw, pleading whisper. “Will you give me the honor—the privilege—of marrying me? Of letting me spend the rest of my life showing you, every single day, how much you mean to me? Of building this family with you, of growing old with you, of loving you until my last breath? Please, baby… marry me.”

Tears were streaming down your face now too—hot, happy, unstoppable. You couldn’t speak at first, throat too tight, heart too full. You just nodded—frantic little jerks of your head—before the word finally burst out.

“Yes.”

And again, louder, laughing through sobs.

“Yes—yes—yes—”

Jake let out a broken, joyful sound—half laugh, half cry—and surged up, catching you in his arms as gently as he could with your bump between you. He spun you once then crushed his mouth to yours in a kiss that tasted like salt and love and forever. His hands cradled your face, thumbs wiping at your tears even as his own kept falling. When you finally parted—both gasping, foreheads pressed together—he laughed shakily.

“You’re gonna be my wife.”

He dropped back to one knee—still crying, still grinning like an idiot—and took your trembling left hand. He slid the ring on slowly, watching it settle perfectly at the base of your finger like it had always belonged there. Then he lifted your hand to his lips, kissed the ring, kissed your knuckles, kissed your wrist.

You grabbed his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the wet trails on his cheeks, and pulled him up into another kiss. This one was deeper, hungrier—teeth clacking, tongues tangling, desperate and overflowing with everything you felt. He groaned into your mouth, hands sliding to your waist, pulling you as close as he could.

When you finally broke apart—gasping, foreheads touching, lipstick smudged across both your mouths in bright red streaks—he laughed again, soft and dazed.

You grinned—teary, radiant—and kissed him once more, quick and sweet.

“My fiancé,” you murmured against his mouth.

His eyes fluttered closed like the word physically hit him. “Say it again.”

“My fiancé.”

He made a low, broken sound—half moan, half sob—and kissed you again, slower this time, savoring it.  “I’m gonna marry the hell out of you.”

You laughed—wet, joyful—and nodded. “Yeah. You are.”

Later you found out he’d hired a private photographer—hidden among the palms—who’d captured every moment. The photos arrived a week later, which Jake framed and placed around the house: one on the nightstand, one in the living room, and more on the walls. His favorite was the one where you were laughing through tears, hands on his face, the ocean sparkling behind you both.

When you returned to the resort that night, still crying happy tears that wouldn’t stop Jake didn’t waste a single second. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he turned to you like you were the only thing left in the world.

“My fiancée,” he breathed, voice cracking on the word like it was still too new, too sacred to say out loud. His hands—those strong, veiny hands you loved so much—came up to cradle your face first, thumbs brushing away the wet trails on your cheeks before he kissed you slowly, then he started undressing you right there inside the doorway, like unwrapping something priceless. His fingers trembled slightly as he slipped the straps of your dress down your shoulders, letting the fabric pool at your feet in a soft whisper of silk. He kissed every inch he uncovered: the slope of your shoulders, the delicate line of your collarbone, the upper swell of your breasts.

“My wife soon,” he murmured against your skin, lips trailing lower. “My beautiful, perfect wife… I can’t believe you said yes. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

You sighed—soft, shaky—eyes fluttering closed as you let yourself sink into the feeling of his hands and mouth. Every touch felt amplified: the warmth of his palms sliding down your sides, the gentle drag of his calloused fingertips over your skin.

He guided you backward toward the giant bed—sheets still warm from the sun that had poured through the open balcony doors all day—until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. He eased you down gently, arranging pillows behind your back and under your hips so you were comfortable.

“Love of my life,” he whispered, kneeling between your parted thighs, hands roaming everywhere, “you’re everything, mama. Everything I ever dreamed of and more.” His mouth followed his hands—lips and tongue mapping every curve, every sensitive spot until you sighed again, deeper this time, body relaxing into the pillows as he settled between your thighs with that same worshipful hunger.

“My wife,” he breathed against your core, voice cracking with emotion as he spread you gently, admiring the way you glistened for him. “My perfect, gorgeous wife… gonna love you like this forever.”

As your belly grew wider and the weight became exhausting, Jake made sure you barely lifted a finger. He cooked every meal, cleaned the entire house spotless, handled bills and appointments, ran errands—you name it, he did it. You’d reward him generously: slow, teasing blowjobs where you edged him until he was whining and begging, or spreading your legs on the couch so he could eat you out for as long as he wanted, (his favorite form of payment.)

Jake signed up for every prenatal and newborn class available—showing up early with his notebook, sitting in the front row, asking detailed questions after every session: “What’s the best way to swaddle so they don’t break free?” “How do I tell if they’re hungry or just gassy?” He’d come home buzzing with new information, demonstrating swaddling techniques on a stuffed animal while you watched, amused and touched by how seriously he took it all.

Jake was there for every single pregnancy symptom—holding your hair during morning sickness, rubbing your lower back through pain, bringing cool cloths for hot flashes, massaging your calves when they cramped at night. Mood swings? He’d hold you while you cried, never judging. He researched every ache, every weird craving, every worry, turning himself into your personal pregnancy encyclopedia and comfort machine.

When the ultrasound revealed three healthy heartbeats—two boys and a girl—Jake nearly levitated off the exam table. “Triplets? Holy shit—mama, we’re having triplets!” He kissed you so hard the tech had to clear her throat. Later, alone, he’d rub your bump obsessively, already joking “Next time we’ll be just as lucky,” eyes sparkling with mischief and pure joy.

The wedding finally came one glorious day, and doubled as the most beautiful celebration of the triplets anyone could imagine. Everyone who mattered was there. 

Your wedding dress was breathtaking—flowing ivory chiffon that draped lovingly over your rounded belly instead of hiding it, the fabric shimmered and when you stepped out as the music started everyone went quiet.

Jake stood waiting at the altar—simple linen suit, no tie, hair slightly tousled and the moment he saw you, he broke. Tears welled up instantly. His shoulders shook as he tried—and failed—to contain the sobs. By the time you reached him, his eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks wet, grin wobbly and wide. He took your hands immediately—both of them—lifting them to his lips and kissing your knuckles over and over. You could feel his hands trembling, could see the way he kept swallowing hard, trying to hold himself together long enough to say the vows.

The ceremony was short, heartfelt, and tear-soaked. You both wrote your own vows—Jake’s voice cracked on every other sentence as he promised to love you through every laugh and every tear. “I promise to spend forever showing you how much that means to me.” When you said your part he openly sobbed, head tipping forward.

The officiant asked the question. You both said “I do.”

Then the kiss.

Cheers and whoops erupted—friends and family clapping. 

Jake kissed you like the world was ending—deep, hungry, hands cradling your face while yours gripped his suit jacket. When you finally parted—both crying, both laughing—he pulled you into his arms and held you tight, face buried in your neck, whispering “My wife… my wife…” like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

The honeymoon was even more magnificent—another private villa, this one in Bora Bora. Mornings started with him waking you with soft kisses down your spine, hands roaming your body like he was discovering it for the first time. Every single day he told you how beautiful you were—how strong, how perfect, how lucky he was. 

“Thank you for being my forever.” Because that’s what you were now.

Husband and wife.

Late at night when fears crept in—about the pain of labor, about being a good enough mom, about handling three babies at once—Jake would pull you close, hand on your bump, voice soft. “You’re already the best mom—they’re so lucky to have you. And I’ll be right there, every second. We’ve got this together, always.” He’d kiss away every tear, rub your back until you fell asleep feeling loved.

Every other day without fail became “Jake’s Super Amazing Fantastic Mommy Spa Day”—a name he insisted on announcing with dramatic flair each time, complete with jazz hands and a goofy grin that never failed to make you laugh even when your back ached and your ankles felt like balloons. It always started the same way: he’d run a warm bubble bath in the oversized tub, the water scented with lavender and chamomile essential oils that he’d carefully measured out himself. He’d help you ease in slowly—supporting your lower back and the heavy curve of your bump—then kneel beside the tub like a devoted attendant.

He’d wash your hair first, fingers massaging your scalp in circles until you sighed and melted against the edge. Shampoo lathered into thick suds, he’d rinse with the handheld showerhead, careful not to let water splash your face. Then came the body wash—gentle scrubs along your back, shoulders, arms—his soapy hands gliding over every inch he could reach, kneading knots out of your muscles with perfect pressure. He’d linger on your shoulders especially, thumbs digging into the tension there until you groaned in relief, head tipping forward. 

When the water started cooling, he’d help you out—wrapping you in the fluffiest towel, drying you with gentle pats rather than rubs so he wouldn’t irritate your sensitive skin. Then he’d lead you to the bedroom, where the lights were dimmed, candles flickering, and the bed covered in soft towels and a waterproof sheet. The full-body massage was meticulous, fingers working down your neck, over your shoulders, along your collarbones. Down to your belly, over your bump, tracing every curve. “Our babies are so lucky to have this home,” he’d whisper, leaning down to kiss the swell repeatedly.

Then your hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of your spine. Legs next—long strokes from thigh to ankle, kneading calves, rolling each foot between his palms until your toes curled in bliss. He’d finish with your feet, massaging the arches, making sure not a single inch was neglected. By the end you were completely slack—limp, boneless, humming in pure, drugged relaxation, every muscle melted into the mattress.

The moment your water broke—warm fluid gushing down your thighs while you were mid-laugh at something silly on TV—Jake switched into focused mode instantly. No panic, no frantic scrambling; he’d prepared for this exact second for months. The hospital bags were already by the door, car keys hanging on the hook, tank full of gas. He helped you off the couch first, pressing a towel between your legs, kissing your forehead. “Breathe with me, mama—nice and slow. We’ve got time.”

He guided you to the car, settling you in the passenger seat with a pillow behind your back. While driving he kept one hand on the wheel, the other clasped tight around yours, breathing in rhythm with you through the first real contractions. “You’re doing amazing—strongest woman I know. We’re almost there, just a few more minutes.” His voice never wavered, even as his free hand trembled slightly with excitement and nerves. When you winced through a stronger one, he’d squeeze your hand and whisper “Squeeze as hard as you need—I’ve got you.”

In the hospital room, Jake never left your side for a single second during the long hours of dilation. He pulled up a chair right next to the bed, holding your hand through every contraction—letting you crush his fingers without complaint. When sweat beaded on your forehead, he’d dab it away with a cool cloth; when you needed to change positions, he’d help the nurses adjust pillows and supports, rubbing your lower back in firm circles to ease the pressure.

“Breathe, baby—in through your nose, out through your mouth,” he’d coach softly, mimicking the pattern with you, never breaking eye contact. When the pain peaked and tears slipped down your cheeks, he’d kiss them away, murmuring “You’re so strong.. doing so well. I’m right here.” He’d remind you of breathing exercises from the classes, count through the peaks, distract you with soft stories about the future—“Can’t wait to see them in your arms, mama”—anything to keep you grounded.

When the first baby slid out crying, Jake cut the cord with shaking hands—tears streaming freely now. The second and third followed quickly—two boys and one girl, all tiny, red-faced, screaming their lungs out. The nurses laid them on your chest immediately while Jake sobbed openly, leaning over you, kissing your sweaty forehead, your cheeks, your lips—whispering brokenly “We did it—look at them, mama—they’re perfect. You’re perfect.”

The day you were discharged, Jake carried the car seats out proudly, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. He helped you into the car with infinite care, buckling you in, tucking blankets around you, kissing you softly before starting the engine.

He then spent the first night sitting on the edge of the bed just staring: at you sleeping, at the three tiny bundles in their bassinets, at the life you’d built. Tears slipped down his cheeks.

Jake became the hands-on dad every new mom dreams of having. Night feeds? He was up without complaint—warming bottles (or bringing babies to you), rocking them in the glider chair while humming softly. Diaper changes at 3 a.m. were met with goofy faces and silly voices to keep them calm. Endless tummy time on the play mat—he’d lie on his stomach mirroring them, cooing. He wore them in carriers while cooking, talking to them constantly: “Daddy’s making dinner for mama—gonna be yummy, right?”

Jake waited patiently through your full postpartum recovery—no pressure, no hints, just gentle care and endless love. Months passed; bodies healed, routines settled. Then one quiet night after the triplets were finally asleep in their cribs, you slipped into bed behind him, pressing your naked body to his back, lips brushing his ear as you whispered “I want more.”

He froze for one heartbeat—then rolled over so fast the bed creaked, hands cradling your face. “You sure, mama?” he breathed, eyes searching yours. When you nodded, he made love to you like it was the first time all over again—slow, careful, deep thrusts that had you both trembling, his hand resting over your stomach the entire time, whispering “Gonna fill you again—gonna give our babies more siblings.” He came with a shuddering moan, staying buried inside you long after, kissing every inch of your skin he could reach.

After your first birth, your pussy had changed in ways that left Jake shamelessly obsessed, your labia was plumper, the outer lips thicker and softer from the extreme stretching required to deliver three babies at once. The folds had taken on a new, pillowy lushness—velvety, swollen even when you weren’t aroused, glistening more easily, more inviting. Your clit seemed perpetually engorged, peeking out more prominently from its hood. The entire area felt heavier, riper, like your body had been permanently remade for pleasure and creation.

“Fuck… look at her,” Jake groaned, voice wrecked, spreading you wide so he could see every changed inch. “So fat and pretty now...” He leaned in and buried his face in the plush heat, inhaling deeply like your scent was oxygen. “God, mama… pushed out three of my kids… and she’s still this fucking perfect.”

He ate you out like a man starved—long, greedy licks that made your knees buckle, sucking gently on the thickened labia before sealing his lips around your clit and pulling softly. 

With three newborns nursing around the clock, your milk supply was nothing short of abundant—your body instinctively producing more than enough to satisfy the triplets' endless hunger. But even after all three babies had their fill—bellies round, eyes heavy, drifting off in their cribs—Jake still looked at you with those big, pleading eyes, lower lip caught between his teeth. “Just a little, mama… please?” he’d whine, voice needy, already kneeling in front of you. He’d wait until you nodded—sometimes with an amused eye-roll, sometimes with a soft sigh—before lifting your nursing top. The moment your heavy, swollen breasts were free, milk already beading at the nipples, he’d latch on with a long, relieved moan. At first he was slow, lips sealing softly around the areola, tongue lapping gently at the leaking drops like he was tasting something sacred. His eyes would roll back, lashes fluttering, a guttural hum vibrating through your skin as the warm, sweet milk hit his tongue.

Some mornings were even better. The triplets would miraculously sleep through, leaving you waking up aching—breasts so full and heavy they throbbed, nipples leaking through your sleep shirt in small damp patches. You’d barely open your eyes before Jake was there, crawling between your legs with a whispered “Let me help, mama—you’re so full it hurts, I can tell.” You’d lift your shirt, guide his head down, and he’d dive in without hesitation—suckling hard and fast from the start, greedy gulps echoing as streams of milk filled his mouth. 

Even with three newborns dictating your schedule, Jake never missed an opportunity to fuck you. Quick morning sessions while the triplets napped in their cribs, baby monitor on, he’d pull you into the master bathroom, he’d lay you down on the bed, spread your legs wide, and fill you over and over— “Take it all—every bit...” It didn’t take long before four positive pregnancy tests were lined up on the bathroom counter like little soldiers. Jake stared at them for a full ten seconds—silent, stunned—then exploded into motion. He jumped around the bedroom like a kid on Christmas morning, whooping and laughing so hard tears streamed down his face, scooping you up in his arms and spinning you in dizzy, euphoric circles. “We’re having more!” He kissed you everywhere—cheeks, forehead, lips, neck—still spinning until you were both laughing and dizzy.

Family park days quickly became a tradition. Jake would show up looking every inch the proud dad: sunglasses perched on his nose, “Best Daddy in the World” T-shirt stretched across his chest, pushing the massive triple stroller (a massive thing with all-terrain wheels,) like it was a trophy he’d won. Inside, the triplets would be bundled in matching outfits—tiny hats, little socks—giggling or babbling. Layla trotted happily beside him, leash in his free hand, tail wagging furiously as she kept pace, occasionally stopping to sniff a flower or greet another dog. Your arm was always looped through Jake’s, your free hand resting on the small, new bump under your matching “Best Mommy in the World” shirt, the words curved proudly across your chest.

Jake worshipped your body, every new mark, every soft curve, every extra pound was treated like evidence of the miracles you’d created. The stretch marks that silvered across your stomach and hips? He’d trace them slowly, kissing each one while murmuring “These are beautiful—proof you carried our babies so perfectly.” The fuller hips and softer thighs that made sitting on his lap feel like sinking into heaven? He’d grip them hard, groaning “Fuck—even more to love.” Your increased appetite only fueled him—he loved watching you eat, loved how your body softened and rounded further. When you stood in front of the mirror frowning at new changes, he’d come up behind you, hands covering yours, chin on your shoulder: “You’re even more gorgeous now—look at what your body did. It created life.” 

Your second pregnancy hit differently—your stomach grew enormous, much bigger than the first time, the triplets’ combined size stretching your skin round almost from the beginning. Moving became a struggle; walking felt heavy, sitting left you breathless, even turning over in bed required strategy and pillows. You struggled to bend, to reach things, to breathe sometimes when the babies sat high and pressed against your ribs. 

Some days you simply couldn’t get out of bed. You spent entire days on your left side, propped up with a mountain of pillows, laptop balanced on a tray table playing some mindless movie or show you weren’t really watching.

Jake would bring the babies to you—your daughter nestled against your chest, latched and nursing contentedly, tiny hands kneading your breast in that instinctive, rhythmic way newborns do, little fingers flexing and curling while the two boys slept swaddled beside you, little bundles tucked close. Their cheeks were flushed from milk and warmth, tiny mouths parted in perfect newborn pout, lashes dark against their skin.

And Jake—he never strayed far. He’d settle right beside you on the edge of the mattress, one knee on the bed, body angled toward you like a planet orbiting its sun. In one hand he held a small plate or bowl—whatever you were craving that afternoon, ready to feed you every single bite. 

He’d watch you. Not just glance—watch, with the kind of open, helpless adoration that made your chest ache. His eyes would go soft and glassy, pupils blown wide, lashes low, and you swore—every single time—you could see little cartoon hearts floating in them like something out of a romance anime. He looked at you like you’d personally hung the moon, like the sight of you nursing your daughter while carrying his next set of miracles was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed.

“Open up, mama,” he’d murmur, thumb brushing your bottom lip as he brought a piece of fruit to your mouth. You’d part your lips and let him slide it in, chewing slowly while he stared. “Taking such good care of our babies… eating so well for them… for me.” Sometimes he’d pause feeding you just to stare, plate forgotten in his lap, eyes tracing every detail. His gaze was so thick with love it felt physical, like a warm hand stroking down your spine.

“You’re so beautiful,” he’d whisper, almost to himself. “I still can’t believe you’re mine… that you gave me all this… that you’re doing it again.” Then he’d shake himself out of it, blink hard like he was coming back to earth, and bring another bite to your lips. “More—c’mon, baby. One more for our little ones.”

When you finally swallowed the last bite he’d set the plate aside, wipe your mouth with the pad of his thumb, then lean in to kiss you.

Only then would he settle in closer—curling around your side, head resting on your shoulder, one hand on your bump, rubbing, caressing. He’d stay like that for hours—watching the movie without really seeing it, listening to the soft sounds of your family breathing, whispering “I love you” against your skin every few minutes like he couldn’t help himself.

Because he couldn’t.

Your water broke on a perfectly ordinary afternoon—the triplets were having playtime on the living room rug, colorful toys scattered around them, a cheerful cartoon singing from the TV. Jake was in the kitchen making lunch, humming along to whatever song was playing. You felt the sudden warm gush between your thighs, soaking through your tiny shorts instantly. You froze for a second—then called out, voice surprisingly calm: “Jake… my water just broke.” He appeared in the doorway so fast he nearly tripped—eyes wide, spatula still in hand—then jumped into action. “Okay—okay—bags are ready, I’ve got you.” He called his parents first, voice steady but quick: “Mom—can you come now? Her water broke.” They arrived in record time; Jake kissed each baby’s head, handed them off with hurried instructions, then turned all his focus to you. He helped you to the car—arm around your waist, hand supporting your belly—settling you in with pillows and towels, buckling you carefully. 

In the delivery room Jake never left your side, wiping sweat from your brow. When it was time to push he counted with you, encouraged every effort, cut the cords with trembling hands as one boy and two girls were born—tiny, loud, perfect.

He held them like spun glass—tears streaming as he kissed their downy heads, whispering “Welcome to the world, my loves.” Jake sobbing openly as he looked from you to the babies and back again, completely overwhelmed by the miracle of it all.

Jake was always present, always engaged, always putting family first. He coached tiny soccer teams, built blanket forts that took up the whole living room, turned bedtime into theater with dramatic voices and silly sound effects. When tantrums happened he’d kneel to their level, patient and calm; when they got hurt he’d kiss boo-boos and hug them tight.

You embraced being a stay-at-home mom fully—nurturing the loud chaos of a growing family. Jake handled everything else and stepped in as caregiver whenever you needed rest. Together you were the perfect partnership: you pouring love into the children’s days, him making sure the world outside didn’t intrude unless you wanted it to.

Watching you mother made Jake fall harder every single day. Seeing you soothe a tantrum with patient words, kiss scraped knees until giggles replaced tears, read stories in funny voices until sleepy eyes fluttered closed—his heart swelled until he thought it might burst. He’d catch you rocking a baby to sleep, humming softly, sunlight catching your hair—and just stare, eyes shining with awe. “How did I get so lucky?” 

The morning the oldest kids started kindergarten, Jake stood at the school gate waving until they disappeared inside with their little backpack—then turned to you and burst into tears. He pulled you into a tight hug, sobbing openly into your shoulder: “They’re growing up—they’re gonna leave the nest soon!” You held him while he cried, rubbing his back, laughing softly through your own misty eyes at the sight of your big, strong husband reduced to tears by kindergarten.

You didn’t expect it. Your body was finally your own again—no extra heartbeats fluttering beneath your skin, no kicks against your ribs, no constant fullness stretching your womb. For the first time in a long time, your stomach was flat(ish), your energy coming back in waves. You should’ve felt free. Light. Relieved.

Instead, you felt… empty.

It started small—a quiet ache when you pressed your hand to your stomach in the shower and felt nothing move beneath it. A strange sadness when you looked in the mirror and saw no round swell, no visible proof of life growing. Your womb was quiet. Too quiet. The house was loud with kids, but inside you—nothing. No tiny flutters, no second heartbeat syncing with yours. Just absence.

You tried to ignore it at first, but the feeling lingered. A hollow space behind your navel that ached. You missed it—the heaviness, the fullness, the knowledge that life was blooming inside you. You missed feeling complete in a way you hadn’t realized you’d grown addicted to.

One evening, after Jake had put the kids to bed—stories read, lights out, doors closed—he came back to the bedroom and found you sitting on the edge of the mattress, hands pressed to your stomach, staring at nothing.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “I feel… empty,” you whispered. “My body’s mine again, but it feels wrong. Like something’s missing. Like I’m supposed to be full.”

Jake froze in the doorway for half a second—then crossed the room in three strides. He dropped to his knees in front of you, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing away the tears you hadn’t realized were falling. “Baby…” His voice cracked. “You want more?”

You nodded, small and certain. “I want to feel full again.”

That was all he needed. He stripped you both bare with trembling hands. No words now—just need and slid into you in one long thrust, groaning low against your neck as your walls welcomed him home. “Gonna give you what you need.”

He came inside you over and over—thick, hot spurts that painted your walls, filled your womb, leaked out around his cock only for him to fuck it right back in. Each time he finished he’d grind deep, hips circling, pushing every drop deeper. “Stay in…”

Cum dripped from you in thick, creamy rivulets—coating your thighs, soaking the sheets in a warm, sticky puddle beneath your hips. He’d pull back just enough to watch it leak out, groan at the sight, then thrust back in, fucking his own release deeper. Your pussy made filthy, wet squelching sounds with every stroke; his balls slapped against your ass, slick with both of you; the headboard thumped rhythmically against the wall.

You were so far gone that you didn’t even realize your body had started instinctively trying to escape the intensity. Your hips shifted backward, small, unconscious movements trying to ease the way every thrust seemed to press deeper into already overloaded nerves.

Jake tsked disapprovingly, almost scolding—and his hands clamped down on your hips like iron. “No, no, mama,” he murmured, voice thick with dark affection. “Where you goin’? You stay right here.” In one smooth motion he hooked your legs over his shoulders, and pressed your knees toward your chest, body bent in a perfect mating press.The world shrank to the wet slap of skin, the thick drag of him inside you, the hot pulses of his release painting your insides again and again until your lower belly felt swollen, bloated, visibly distended from the sheer volume he’d pumped into you.

You came again—shattered, helpless, vision whiting out—clenching so hard around him that he groaned like he was dying. The pain-overload finally tipped you over the edge of consciousness. Your body went limp beneath him, eyes fluttering shut, soft, broken whimpers fading into shallow breaths as you passed out.

When you woke again, your body felt heavy, still tingling from the marathon of orgasms. And you were still so full. Your pussy was plugged—something smooth and thick sealing you shut, keeping every drop of Jake’s cum trapped inside. Your stomach had a soft, warm bloat that made you look a few weeks pregnant already. The pressure was comforting, like your body remembered exactly what it was made for.

And Jake… Jake was suckling at your breast. He laid curled against your side, head pillowed on your chest, lips latched gently around one swollen nipple. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, expression utterly blissed-out, like this was the only place in the world he wanted to be.

You stirred—barely a shift—and whispered his name, voice hoarse and wrecked from moaning. “Jake…”

He pulled off with a soft, wet pop—milk running in thin white trails down his chin, glistening on his swollen lips. He blinked slowly, eyes hazy with love, then shushed you gently. “Shhh, mama… go back to sleep,” he murmured.“I’ll take care of everything…”

Too exhausted to argue, your eyes drifted shut again as he connected his lips back to your nipple, resuming the soothing rhythm. The sucking sounds returned with the occasional wet swallow when he took a deeper pull. His hand rested protectively on your bloated stomach, fingers splaying wide over the cum-filled swell, thumb stroking slow circles like he was soothing both you and the possibility already growing inside.

A few weeks later you showed him three positive tests. Jake stared—then fainted dead away, crumpling to the bedroom floor. You laughed while fanning him awake with a magazine; he came to grinning, pulled you down, and kissed you senseless.

With the family expanding again, Jake bought a massive house—big enough for everyone: huge backyard for endless play, close to schools and parks, plenty of bedrooms, a kitchen big enough for family dinners. Moving day was pure joy—kids running and crawling through empty halls claiming rooms, Layla barking excitedly, Jake carrying boxes while stealing kisses from you, already planning where the swing set would go and how many Christmas trees they’d need.

Your third pregnancy hit like a tidal wave—your body had already transformed twice over from carrying and birthing, now stretching once more to accommodate new life. The changes were dramatic and immediate: hips wider than ever, breasts heavier almost overnight, skin soft and glowing in that unmistakable pregnant way that made Jake lose his mind every single time he looked at you. Two previous pregnancies had softened and rounded you in ways that drove him feral—your curves more pronounced, your thighs thicker, your ass fuller, your belly already rounding out.

Jake became impossibly more insatiable. He couldn’t keep his hands off you. Mornings he would wake you up by sliding between your thighs, tongue lapping lazily at your swollen folds while his hands roamed your changing body—squeezing the extra softness at your hips, tracing the faint silver stretch marks like they were treasure maps. He’d eat you out until you came shaking.

Throughout the days he’d find excuses to touch you. Sex became constant—quick and desperate in the shower, slow and filthy on the couch while the kids napped, rough and possessive against the kitchen counter after dinner. He loved how your body responded, pussy plumper and wetter around him from years of stretching and delivering. 

You loved being a mother—deeply, fiercely, in a way you never imagined before Jake. Sure, there were tiring days: endless diaper changes, tantrums, sleepless nights, the constant juggling of schedules. But you wouldn’t trade it for anything. Six kids running around the house—laughing, fighting, growing—and more growing in your belly? Yeah, you were happy. Truly, stupidly happy. One afternoon a friend had called you a “baby factory” in that teasing-but-not-really way. You didn’t get offended. Instead, you smiled. The phrase stuck with you in a strange, warm way. Later that night, curled against Jake in bed, you told him about it, half-expecting him to laugh it off. He didn’t. He went still, eyes darkening, then leaned in and kissed you so deeply your toes curled. “My baby factory,” he whispered against your lips, voice rough with want. From then on it became his favorite endearment and you loved it. Loved being his baby factory. Loved knowing your body had given him everything he ever dreamed of.

Your parents and Jake’s parents were always just a phone call away—lifelines when the chaos got overwhelming. They’d swoop in for weekend sleepovers so you and Jake could have a night alone, or take the older kids for a few days when you were too pregnant to chase toddlers. Jake’s mom especially loved having the grandbabies over—baking cookies, reading stories, spoiling them rotten. It became normal: the house was full one day, half-empty the next when grandparents played backup. You and Jake never took it for granted—always thanking them with hugs, homemade dinners, and tearful appreciation for how much easier they made the madness.

The appointment day arrived like any other—gel cold on your belly, wand gliding smoothly over the swell. Jake sat beside you, holding your hand, thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. The tech smiled, adjusted the screen, then paused. “Healthy twins—one boy, one girl.”

Jake’s jaw literally dropped. His eyes went wide, mouth falling open in stunned silence for a full three seconds. Then he grabbed your hand so tight it almost hurt, grin splitting his face like he’d won the lottery again. “Twins?!” he breathed, voice cracking with joy. He turned to you, tears already shining, and kissed you hard—right there in the exam room.

Your third pregnancy unfolded like a dream, lush, radiant, and so perfect that every single day felt like a gift. Your body responded with the kind of lush abundance that only came after two previous sets of multiples. 

Every night was worship.

He’d start by helping you undress, peeling away layers until you were bare before him, belly proud and round between you. Then he’d guide you to the bed, pillows arranged so you were comfortable on your side or propped half-upright, and he’d begin. Some nights he started with your breasts—forever full, forever aching—cupping their heavy weight in both hands, thumbs brushing the leaking nipples until milk beaded and dripped. He’d lean in and latch gently, slow pulls that made you sigh in relief as he drank, gulping softly, moaning against your skin like your milk was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. 

Other nights he’d drop between your thighs first—spreading you wide, thumbs parting your plump, swollen folds. “So pretty… made for carrying my kids…” He ate you out like a starved man finally sitting down to his first three-course meal—long, greedy licks from your leaking entrance to your clit, tongue delving deep to taste every inch of your softened, plush pussy. He never rushed; he’d bring you to the edge over and over, until you were trembling, and only then would he crawl up your body, slide inside you slow and deep, and make love to you with hands splayed over your belly, whispering how beautiful you looked carrying his babies again.

Jake loved early mornings most of all, when the house was still quiet and you were warm, full, sleepy, and pliant in his arms. You’d wake slowly, barely conscious as he pressed soft kisses down your spine, over the curve of your hip, between your thighs. You were always so relaxed then—too drowsy to protest, too needy to care—letting him do anything he wanted. He’d start by spreading your legs gently, nosing against your folds until you sighed and opened for him. He’d eat you out lazily—slow, indulgent licks, tongue dipping inside to taste the sweet morning wetness, lips sealing around your clit with soft, sucking pulls. You’d moan sleepily, hand drifting to his hair, hips rocking in tiny, instinctive movements.

One of the happiest moments of Jake’s entire life was the day he took the whole family to Disneyland. He’d planned it for months—tickets, hotel, park passes, every detail perfect.The older ones were buzzing with excitement; the girls were dressed as their favorite princesses—tiny sparkling gowns, tiaras slightly crooked—while the boys were in full character mode: one as Peter Pan (complete with green hat and feather), another in a fluffy Simba onesie from The Lion King, tail dragging behind him, and the youngest in a blue Stitch onesie, ears flopping every time he moved.

When you stepped out in your beautiful princess gown—flowing, ethereal, the fabric stretching lovingly over your round bump—Jake almost died. He stared, mouth open, eyes shining, then dropped to his knees right there to press kisses all over your belly. “You’re…you’re a dream,” he choked out, voice thick. “My Queen.. I can’t—”

The day was magic. Jake carried his youngest daughter on his shoulders, her little hands gripping his hair like reins, while you held your youngest son on your hip, his Stitch ears bouncing as he pointed at everything. The older kids ran ahead, then back, tugging at your dress to show you a character or a ride. Jake spoiled them shamelessly—buying light-up toys, Mickey ears, candy apples, churros, plushies until their arms were full and their faces were sticky with sugar and joy.

The moment that broke him completely came during dinner at one of the character dining spots. Daisy and Minnie came over, saw the sea of kids, your glowing pregnant belly, the matching family energy, and started miming in delighted surprise. You laughed and chatted with them, lifting your hand to show off the massive diamond ring on your finger. They clutched their chests, mimed hearts exploding, fanned themselves dramatically, then hugged you and the kids before prancing away. Jake sat besides you the whole time, beaming so wide his cheeks hurt. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The pride radiating off him was enough to light up the entire park.

Jake loved having you sit on his face even more now—your pregnant body made it feel more sacred. He’d lie back on the bed, hands already reaching for your hips, begging with those big, pleading eyes until you straddled his face. Once you lowered yourself, he’d groan like he’d died and gone to heaven. His hands squeezed your ass and wide hips hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you down further, burying his nose and mouth in your dripping cunt.

You’d keen and moan above him, one hand braced on the headboard, the other rubbing slow circles over your round stomach. “Jake—oh god—” you’d gasp, grinding down harder, riding his face until you came shaking, gushing over his tongue. He’d drink it all until you collapsed forward, trembling, and he’d kiss your inner thighs, your mound, your bump.

You loved waking up before him, you’d slip under the covers, nuzzling against his hip, kissing the soft skin of his lower belly before taking his cock into your mouth. Even asleep he was desperate, hips twitching the moment your lips closed around him, thrusting shallowly into the wet heat of your throat. You’d let him, relaxing your throat, letting him fuck your mouth in sleepy, needy little jerks, whining low in his sleep, cock leaking against your tongue.

When he finally woke—groggy, confused, then overwhelmed—he’d moan loud and broken, hands flying to your hair. He’d fuck your mouth properly then—deep, controlled thrusts that hit the back of your throat, making your eyes water, your moans vibrating around him. He’d come hard, flooding your mouth with thick pulses until it spilled from the corners of your lips. You’d swallow every drop, licking him clean while he panted and stared down at you like you were a miracle.

Jake needed his fingers on your pussy all the time—like it was a compulsion he couldn’t fight, a quiet addiction he fed in stolen moments throughout the day. He was sneaky about it, masterful at hiding his obsession behind innocent touches and casual closeness, so the kids never suspected a thing. The house was full of little eyes and ears, but Jake had learned every blind spot, every second of distraction he could steal.

In the kitchen while you cooked dinner, kids glued to cartoons in the living room, volume high enough to cover soft sounds, he’d come up behind you like he was just helping. Arms caging you against the counter, chest pressed to your back, chin on your shoulder as if admiring the stir-fry. One hand would slide under the loose waistband of your maternity leggings, fingers finding your clit through the thin cotton of your panties. He’d circle lazily at first—gentle pressure that made your breath hitch—then slip beneath the fabric, two long fingers gliding through your folds to find you already slick.

“Shhh,” he’d breathe against your ear, lips barely moving, voice so low only you could hear. “Just checking on my favorite girl… she’s so wet already, mama. Always ready for me.” He’d pump slowly—curling against your g-spot in gentle, insistent strokes. You’d grip the counter edge, biting your lip raw to stay quiet, thighs trembling as he worked you with practiced ease, he’d press his palm flat against your mound, grinding subtly so the heel of his hand rubbed your clit while his fingers stayed buried deep. “So needy… can’t keep my hands off her,” he’d whisper, voice wrecked with want. He’d edge you right to the brink—then pull out just as the kids shouted for more juice, leaving you flushed and aching while he sauntered off with a glass and an innocent smile.

Movie nights were his favorite playground. The living room lights dimmed, blankets piled high, kids sprawled across couches and floor pillows with popcorn bowls, eyes glued to the screen. You and Jake always claimed the biggest couch in the back—your shared blanket draped over both laps like a shield. The second the opening credits rolled his hand would drift under the covers, finding its way between your thighs like it had a homing beacon. No rush—just lazy circles over your clit through your panties at first, feeling you slick up under his touch. When you started squirming he’d slip beneath the fabric, fingers dipping inside to curl against that spot that made your toes curl. He’d pump gently—never fast enough to make noise, while his thumb kept lazy pressure on your clit. You’d bite your lip raw, thighs clenching around his wrist, trying to stay still while the kids laughed at the movie. If one of them turned to ask a question he’d answer calmly—voice perfectly normal—while his fingers never stopped moving inside you. “Yeah, buddy, the hero’s gonna win this round,” he’d say casually, curling harder just to watch your eyes flutter. By the time the credits rolled you’d be shaking while Jake pressed a soft kiss to your temple and whispered “Good girl… took it so quietly for me.”

Bathing together was his sneakiest playground. The kids loved bath time—bubbles, toys, splashing—but once they were clean and in pajamas, you and Jake would slip into the big tub together for “adult quiet time.” To the kids—if one wandered in, it looked perfectly innocent: Mommy and Daddy taking a relaxing bath together. They’d giggle, say “Eww, wrinkly fingers!” and scamper out.

But under the water Jake’s hands were busy, fingers parting your folds under the surface where no one could see. 

If one of the kids noticed your flushed cheeks or asked why Mommy looked red, Jake would just smile and say “Mommy’s just feeling a little warm from the bath, sweetheart. Nothing to worry about.” 

He was rock-hard for you the entire time the kids had their first swimming lessons. You wore a simple black bikini, nothing flashy, but it hugged every curve: tits hanging heavy, nipples visible through the wet fabric, stomach round and proud. You glowed in the water—swimming with the kids, laughing as they splashed, helping them float, kissing cheeks when they got scared. Every time another mom complimented you—“You’re so strong, I could never handle so many!”—you’d smile, hand on your bump, and thank them sweetly.

Jake didn’t hear a word the other dads said as they hyped him up, slapping his back, joking about how lucky he was. His eyes were glued to you. Six kids hanging off you in the shallow end—calling “Mommy! Mommy! Watch me!”—tugging at your arms, splashing, laughing, all while you held them effortlessly, radiant and pregnant and perfect. He stood at the edge of the pool, arms crossed, cock straining against his swim trunks, trying not to lose his mind in public.

When you finally climbed out, water streaming down your body, he nearly growled. He wrapped a towel around you immediately, pulling you close, lips at your ear: “You’re killing me, mama. Gonna fuck you in the changing room if you keep looking like that.”

He didn’t—but only because there were too many kids and parents around. The second you got home, though? Another story.

Jake melted when you took control. Some nights you’d wake up needy, hormones raging, and find him already hard in his sleep. You’d straddle his hips, guide him inside you, and ride him slow and deep while he blinked awake beneath you—groggy, dazed, then desperate.

Other times you’d make him kneel.

You’d stand above him and tease him mercilessly. You’d lean down to stroke his cock with slow, lazy drags of your hand, letting him leak against your palm, then pull away when his hips bucked. He’d break instantly, kneeling at your feet, hands gripping your thighs, tears in his eyes as he pleaded: “Please, mama—let me taste you—need your pussy… need to make you feel good—please—”

You’d make him cry sometimes—tears of pure desperation—before finally guiding his head between your legs. He’d eat you out like a man possessed—sucking your clit hard, tongue thrusting deep, hands squeezing your ass and hips while you rubbed your stomach and moaned above him. When you came—shaking, gushing—he’d drink it all, moaning against you, then look up with wet eyes and thank you.

He’d stay on his knees after—cock weeping, untouched—until you decided he’d earned his release. Only then would you sink down onto him, riding him slow and deep while he sobbed with gratitude, hands worshipping every inch of your pregnant body.

He’d spend forever on his knees for you, happy to serve, happy to fill you again and again until your family was exactly as big and perfect as you both dreamed.

Some nights your breasts would ache so badly you’d wake up gasping, shirt soaked through with milk, nipples throbbing, heavy and hot like they might burst. One particularly rough night, around 3 a.m., the pain pulled you out of sleep with a sharp, helpless whine. Your breasts felt like overfilled balloons, leaking steadily, the wet fabric clinging coldly to your skin.

Jake woke instantly—sleepy, disoriented, voice thick with exhaustion. “Mami? What’s wrong?” He rolled toward you, one hand fumbling to find your face in the dark, thumb brushing your cheek. “You okay? Need water? Pain meds? Tell me, baby…”

You whimpered again, words slurring with fatigue and discomfort. “Breasts… hurt… so full…”

He blinked slowly, processing through the fog of sleep, then understanding clicked. His eyes softened, even half-lidded and heavy. “Okay… okay, I’ve got you,” he murmured, already shifting. He tugged your soaked shirt up and over your head without hesitation, letting it drop to the floor. He didn’t tease, didn’t play—he just leaned in and latched onto one breast with a soft groan.

The first long pull made you sigh, relief flooding through the ache as warm milk flowed into his mouth. He sucked steadily, cheeks hollowing, gulping in quiet, swallows that filled the silence. His hand cupped the underside of the breast gently, supporting its weight, thumb stroking the curve while he worked. When the flow slowed he switched to the other side, tongue lapping first to coax the milk, then sucking deeper, harder, until you felt the pressure ease there too.

He alternated between them, chewing softly on the tender peaks just to keep the milk coming.  You closed your eyes, body finally relaxing as the ache drained away.

One late night Jake came home from a long schedule, exhausted, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy, expecting the usual quiet house after bedtime. Instead he opened the door to a scene that stopped him dead in his tracks.

You were asleep on the couch, curled on your side, massive pregnant belly cradled protectively with one arm. Kids were piled around you like puppies, nestled in the crooks of your arms or against your chest, tiny hands clutching your shirt. Blankets were everywhere—half on the floor, half draped over all of you. The TV glowed softly on a paused cartoon, forgotten snacks scattered on the coffee table. Layla lay at your feet, head resting on your ankle, tail giving one lazy thump when she saw him.

Jake stood frozen in the doorway, keys still in his hand. Then his eyes filled.

He didn’t make a sound—just dropped his bag quietly, kicked off his shoes, and sank to his knees beside the couch. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he took it all in: your peaceful face, the way your body curled instinctively around the children even in sleep, the tiny hands everywhere. He reached out with shaking fingers and brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, then kissed your temple.

He stayed like that for a long time—just watching, crying quietly, heart so full it hurt. Eventually he wiped his face, gathered blankets, and carefully tucked everyone in tighter, making sure no one was cold, no one was uncomfortable, before slipping upstairs to change. When he came back down he sat on the floor beside the couch, hand resting on your bump, and fell asleep right there—surrounded by his entire world.

Jake’s friends—especially Heeseung—were mercilessly smug every time they came over. They’d walk in, see the chaos of toys and kids and your figure moving through the kitchen or living room, and immediately start grinning like they knew something he didn’t.

“Look at you, domestic king,” Heeseung would drawl, while Jake bounced a toddler on his hip. “Bro, you’re living the dream—and she’s still hot as hell. How do you even function?”

“She’s perfect,” Jake said simply, while Heeseung fake-gagged and the others laughed. “I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

The kids gravitated to you like sunflowers to light. You remembered every favorite stuffed animal’s name, every obscure cartoon character they loved, every tiny insecurity they whispered at bedtime. You braided hair with ribbons that matched their outfits, painted nails in glittery colors they picked, read the same book for the hundredth time with fresh enthusiasm in your voice.

You taught them kindness by example, sharing snacks with the neighbor kids, always saying “please” and “thank you” even when no one was watching. When they were sick, you’d camp out on the floor beside their bed, cool cloth on their forehead, singing lullabies until fever broke. When they were scared of the dark, you’d leave the hallway light on and whisper “Mommy’s right here” until they fell asleep holding your hand.

You were never just “Mom”—you were their safe place, their first cheerleader, their soft place to land. And even pregnant, exhausted, waddling through the house with a hand on your lower back, you still found the energy to scoop up a crying toddler, kiss a scraped knee, or sit cross-legged on the floor to build Lego towers. 

Jake was the perfect counterpoint, changing diapers with expert speed while making silly faces to keep the baby smiling, turning bath time into adventures with bubbles and toys. He taught the boys how to kick a soccer ball properly, helped the girls with their cartwheels in the backyard, and never once complained about glitter in his hair or nail polish on his fingers from “mani-pedi” nights.

When the kids were scared of thunder, he’d build blanket forts and tell them stories about brave knights until the storm passed. When they were sick, he’d carry them around the house in a towel cape, pretending they were superheroes who could beat any germ.

He never let you carry the mental load alone—remembered dentist appointments, signed permission slips, packed lunches with little notes inside. He’d come home from long days and immediately take over, helping with homework, reading stories with dramatic voices until giggles filled the room. And through it all, he looked at you like you were the miracle. Every time you walked into a room, his eyes softened, shoulders relaxed, like coming home to you was the only thing that mattered.

Jake was heart-meltingly a girl dad. With his daughters, he was pure mush. He learned to braid hair (messy at first, then surprisingly neat), painted nails in every color of the rainbow (and let them paint his too), and sat through tea parties with pinky extended, sipping imaginary tea from tiny cups while wearing a plastic tiara. He’d let them do his makeup—bright blue eyeshadow, crooked lipstick—and walk around the house proudly.

He kept every drawing they ever made, and told them every single day they were beautiful, smart, strong, brave, kind—planting those seeds so deep they’d never doubt themselves.

When one of the girls skinned her knee, he’d carry her inside like she was made of glass, clean the wound with gentle hands, put on a sparkly band-aid, and kiss it better—then distract her with ice cream and silly faces until she forgot it hurt. He was the dad who built dollhouses, the dad who learned every lyric to every Disney song so he could sing duets with them in the car. 

He was their first love, their protector, their safe place. And every time one of his daughters ran to him—arms wide, calling “Daddy!”—his entire face would light up like the sun had just come out. 

Nine months later you gave birth, body wrung dry, but glowing with exhausted triumph. The midwives already knew you by name; this was your third delivery with them, and they joked about giving you a loyalty card. Jake stayed beside you through every contraction, every push until one boy and one girl were born, tiny and loud and perfect.

He held them like they were the most fragile things in existence—tears streaming as he kissed their downy heads, whispering “Welcome, my loves.” You lay back, spent but smiling, watching him cradle the newborns while the older kids waited outside with grandparents.

After the twins you looked at Jake one quiet night and said softly, “Maybe that’s enough?” He agreed instantly—no hesitation, no disappointment, just a smile and a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Whatever you want, mama. We have the most beautiful family already.” He pulled you close, hand resting on your stomach that had carried so much, whispering how proud he was, how complete he felt.

Jake stood in the pharmacy aisle for a solid ten minutes like a man facing an alien artifact as he just… stared at the row of condom boxes like they were written in a dead language. He picked up the first pack—ultra-thin, ribbed, “for her pleasure”—turned it over, read the back, frowned, put it down. Picked up another, tilted his head, muttered “What the hell…” and set it aside. Finally he grabbed a basic pack: classic latex, nothing exciting.

He turned the box over in his hands again and again, thumbs rubbing the edges like he was trying to memorize the feel of it. “Been a while since these were needed,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough that the elderly woman two aisles over didn’t hear—but the teenage cashier definitely did, judging by the stifled snort from the register. Jake didn’t notice. He just kept staring, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

The last time he’d bought condoms was back when sex was fun and reckless and there was no thought of forever. Now? Now he had eight kids and a wife whose body still made his knees weak every time you walked into a room. The idea of putting anything between you again felt… wrong. Almost insulting. But you’d both agreed that maybe it was time to slow down. Give your body a real break. Be responsible.

So he purchased them.

He paid quickly, avoiding eye contact with the cashier (who was definitely trying not to laugh), shoved the box into his hoodie pocket like contraband, and drove home with one hand on the wheel and the other tapping nervously against his thigh. When he walked through the front door you were in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of his oversized T-shirts and tiny sleep shorts, hair in a messy bun, stirring something on the stove that smelled divine.

He stopped in the doorway, just watching you for a second as heart did that stupid flip it always did. Then he cleared his throat.

You turned, smiling. “Hey, baby. Kids are napping—got maybe an hour before the chaos restarts.”

He pulled the box out of his pocket slowly, holding it up like evidence in a trial. “Figured we should… be careful now.”

You stared at the pack. Then at him. Then back at the pack. A slow, amused smile spread across your face. “Condoms? Jake… you look like you just bought plutonium.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish grin tugging at his lips before he stepped closer, voice dropping. “But if we’re serious about maybe slowing down… I don’t wanna risk it. Not when you’ve already given me so much.”

You took the box from him, turned it over, read the label, then looked up at him with those eyes that always undid him. “You’re cute when you’re responsible.”

He laughed—soft, embarrassed—and pulled you into his arms, kissing the top of your head. “I’m trying. For you. For us.”

It lasted exactly four weeks… Four weeks of careful, responsible sex—condoms every time, laughing at how awkward it felt after years. Four weeks of Jake staring at the box like it personally offended him every time he opened the drawer, muttering “This is stupid” under his breath while rolling one on. Four weeks of you teasing him mercilessly—arching your back a little extra, moaning his name a little louder, whispering “Wish you were bare inside me” right when he was about to come just to watch him lose his mind.

Then one night it happened.

You were riding him slow, hands braced on his chest, hips rolling in deep, lazy circles. The condom was on, slick with lube and both of you, but something felt… off. Too tight at the base, too loose at the tip. Jake’s hands were on your hips, guiding you, eyes locked on where you were joined, groaning every time you sank down.

“Fuck—mama—you feel so good even with this thing—” He thrust up harder—once, twice—and on the third stroke you both felt it: the sudden give, the snap of latex breaking. The condom tore right at the tip. You froze, eyes wide. Jake’s hips stuttered, cock still buried deep.

“Shit—Jake—the condom—”

But he was already gone, hips snapping up instinctively. The torn latex bunched uselessly around the base of his cock as he chased the feeling he’d been denied for weeks. “Can’t—fuck—can’t stop—” he groaned, hands clamping on your hips, holding you down while he pounded up into you.

You didn’t stop him. The sudden bare heat of him inside you was too overwhelming. You moaned brokenly, nails digging into his chest, riding him harder as he chased his release. He came with a guttural cry—hips slamming up, cock throbbing as he flooded you deep, thick ropes painting your walls, spilling out around the ruined condom still clinging to his base.

He didn’t pull out. He kept going—fucking his cum deeper, grinding slow circles, adding another load before the first even finished leaking. 

By the time he collapsed over you there were three loads leaking out around his cock, creamy and thick, soaking the sheets. The condom was a flimsy little string just hanging there, torn and unusable.  

“Guess we’re really bad at being careful.”

“Guess we are.”

Three weeks later you showed him the tests—three little pink lines staring up from the bathroom counter. Jake stared at them for a long second… then let out a whoop so loud it cracked at the end. 

The thought of not keeping the baby (or babies) hurt too much—especially after birthing eight beautiful, healthy children. You couldn’t imagine ending it. The older kids overheard the news and got so excited about another sibling that their joy sealed the decision of keeping the pregnancy.

Somewhere along the way you realized you loved pregnancy—the concept of life growing inside you, sharing your body, creating with Jake. You’d never even thought about being a mom before him—now you couldn’t imagine anything else. You felt powerful like this—fertile, radiant, unstoppable.

Jake worshipped it. He’d drop to his knees daily just to kiss the swell, murmur against your skin how beautiful you looked carrying his babies again. “My strong mama—making life like it’s nothing.” 

With your little twins from the last set—finally transitioning to bottles and solid foods, the constant nursing sessions had started to taper off. They were growing up, independent in small but noticeable ways: reaching for spoons themselves, babbling “more” , falling asleep without needing your warmth. It hurt a little, deep in your chest—not just physically, but emotionally. You’d spent years with a baby latched on at almost any given moment, and now the silence of an empty breast felt strangely lonely.

But your body hadn’t gotten the memo. Your milk supply was overproducing, leaving your breasts heavy, and aching by mid-morning. You tried to ignore it at first, but the pressure built until you were wincing every time you moved too quickly or bumped against something.

So you bought a breast pump. Nothing fancy—just a quiet electric one with bottles that clicked neatly into place. You told yourself it was practical: relief for you, extra milk for the freezer, a gentle way to ease the twins fully onto bottles. You set it up one quiet afternoon while the oldest were at kindergarten and the younger ones were at their grandparents’ for a playdate. You settled on the bed, propped up with pillows, and switched on the pump for the first time. The rhythmic suction started, milk flowing in steady streams into the bottles. The relief was immediate, tension easing from your chest, but it felt… mechanical. Cold. You sighed, eyes half-closed, letting your head tip back against the headboard. It wasn’t the same as a warm mouth, but it was something—clinical, efficient, bearable.

Then the bedroom door opened.

Jake stepped in mid-sentence—something about going to the store—froze, eyes going comically wide at the sight of you topless, pump attached, milk flowing. For one stunned heartbeat he didn’t move. Then he shrieked—“What the fuck is that thing?!”—and dropped to his knees like he’d been shot. He crawled across the carpet toward you, hands outstretched, face a mix of horror and betrayal as he stared at the machine. “Stop—please—throw that away..” he begged, voice cracking, eyes huge and pleading. “I’m better than that thing. Please. I can do it—let me do it.”

You paused the pump, amused and touched by his desperation. The next second the machine was in the trash, and Jake had latched on. His gulps were immediate, loud, wet—far noisier than the pump had ever been. Thick streams hit the back of his throat; he choked once, twice, on the sheer volume, but didn’t pull away. His throat worked visibly, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow, eyes fluttering closed in pure bliss.

You lay back, one hand sliding into his hair, fingers tightening and pushing his head closer. “That’s it,” you whispered, voice soft and encouraging. He moaned against you, using his hand to squeeze the breast so more flowed. 

When you were finally relieved you pushed him off gently—nipples puffy and glistening—he looked utterly gone. Eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and shiny with milk. He giggled like a blissed-out fool, mumbling “So delicious…” he mumbled, words slurring together. “Best thing I’ve ever tasted. Can’t believe I almost let a machine have you.” Before you could respond he leaned in again, latching softly onto one nipple—just gentle, lazy suckles now, eyes drifting closed as he hummed, suckling lazily.

You loved being outside with the whole family—the massive double-wide stroller rolling ahead like a parade float, kids dozing inside under little blankets, Jake walked beside you, one baby strapped to his chest in a carrier, little fists clutching his shirt. You had another strapped to your back—warm weight against your spine—and one more cradled in your arms, head resting on your shoulder. Some days it was just a quick grocery run, other days it was a long walk in the park, or meeting friends for coffee.

Once, heading to the zoo on a perfect spring morning, you’d whispered to Jake right before leaving the house: “My womb feels too empty.” His eyes had darkened instantly. He’d locked the bedroom door, bent you over the edge of the mattress, and fucked you senseless—load after load pumped deep, hips grinding against your ass until you were dripping. Then he’d plugged you up, kissed your forehead, and whispered “All better.”

Walking around the zoo you glowed, belly proud under your shirt, plug shifting with every step, the warmth of his cum still inside you. People stared—some smiled warmly at the huge, happy family; others judged silently, counting heads, whispering about “so many kids.” You and Jake didn’t care. He’d catch your eye over the stroller, wink, and lean in to murmur “They’re just jealous, baby—we’ve got everything.” You’d squeeze his hand, feeling powerful, and so deeply loved it made your chest ache.

When the scan confirmed just one child this time, you and Jake shared a quiet moment of mourning. Not sadness, exactly—just a soft, wistful acknowledgment that your body was finally taking a breather after so many miracles at once. “Only one?” he’d whispered, half-laughing, hand on your stomach. “Guess we’re slowing down.” You both smiled, already excited for another miracle coming into your world.

With eight kids already filling the house with noise and laughter and one more growing steadily inside you, Jake became impossibly clingy, almost comically so. He couldn’t go more than a few minutes without touching you: a hand on your lower back when you walked past, fingers brushing your hips as you cooked, lips pressing to the side of your neck. He’d follow you from room to room like a devoted shadow, eyes soft and hazy every time they landed on your changing body.

“You gave me my dream life,” he’d murmur against your skin at night as he spooned you from behind, arm wrapped protectively over your bump. 

He was in your service completely, kneeling to help you put on shoes, fetching anything you even glanced at, massaging your swollen feet every evening while you reclined on the couch, hands roaming up your calves, thighs, until he was nuzzling between your legs again. You’d laugh and call him ridiculous, but he’d just look up at you with those big eyes and say, “I owe you everything. Let me take care of you.”

It wasn’t just the house that Jake had upgraded to match the size of your growing family, he’d also bought the biggest, most decked-out van money could buy, with tinted windows, sliding doors on both sides, and enough space to feel like a small apartment on wheels. He’d spent hours baby-proofing it, every edge padded with soft foam corners, every seat fitted with secure, rear-facing car seats (even though some of the older kids were transitioning to boosters—he wanted them all safe, always). The floor was lined with washable mats for inevitable spills, and every seatback pocket was stocked with snacks—goldfish crackers, fruit pouches, granola bars, water bottles, and little packs of wipes. There was a dedicated diaper caddy in the back that never ran low, extra blankets folded neatly in the cargo area, a portable changing pad, a first-aid kit, spare clothes for every kid (and one set for you, just in case), and even a small cooler with ice packs for drinks or snacks that needed to stay cold.

Jake had even installed a built-in tablet system on the headrests for the older kids—loaded with their favorite shows and games for long drives. The front passenger seat was yours—always. He’d adjusted it for maximum comfort: extra lumbar support pillow, a heated seat for when your back ached, a phone mount so you could scroll or read, and a little side pouch where he kept your favorite lip balm, hand cream, and a water bottle that he kept full.

The moment the doors slid open, the kids would pile in, giggling while Jake buckled each one in with practiced ease, kissing foreheads and murmuring “Safe and sound, little loves.” You’d settle into the passenger seat, already feeling the weight of your bump pressing against the seatbelt, and Jake would lean over to kiss you before starting the engine.

One sunny morning Jake dropped the kids off at kindergarten, waving as they ran inside with their backpacks bouncing. He was about to walk away when he caught two male teachers standing near the entrance, voices low but carrying just enough.

“You see him?” one asked, nodding toward where Jake was standing.

The other shook his head. “Yeah. Why?”

The first grinned, leaning closer. “His wife? Total hot MILF, man. He’s one lucky bastard. I’d kill to have a wife like her.”

A slow, smug, possessive grin spread across Jake's face. That’s right. He was lucky. The luckiest. And suddenly all he could think about was getting home to you—right now.

He drove back faster than necessary, heart pounding, cock already half-hard in his jeans just from the memory of those words. When he walked through the front door you were lounging on the couch in one of his oversized T-shirts and tiny sleep shorts—legs spread casually, bump just starting to push against the fabric. You looked up with a soft smile. “Hey, baby—”

He didn’t say hi. Didn’t speak at all. In three strides he was in front of you, dropping to his knees between your thighs. His hands shoved your shirt up to expose your rounded belly, then yanked your shorts and panties off  in one rough motion. You gasped, phone slipping from your fingers to clatter on the floor as his mouth descended.

“Jake—!”

He spread your folds wide with both thumbs—admiring the puffy, reddened lips, the slick already gathering at your entrance, the way your clit peeked out. “Fuck,” he growled against you, breath hot on your core. “So perfect...” Then he dove in. 

His tongue flattened against you in one long, greedy drag, moaning like he’d been starving for you. He licked and sucked, spreading you even wider so he could get deeper, tongue thrusting inside to taste every inch of you. Your moans filled the room—high, broken, needy—blending perfectly with the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth working you over.

“God—she’s perfect,” he mumbled into your cunt, voice muffled and wrecked. “Made for me… made for my babies… gave me everything….”

He didn’t stop when you came the first time—back arching, thighs clamping around his head, a gush of slick coating his chin. He only groaned louder, lapped it up, then sucked your clit harder, flicking the tip of his tongue until you shattered again. And again. And again. By the fourth you were trembling uncontrollably, body completely slack against the cushions, limbs heavy and useless, mind melted into white-hot static. Your eyes rolled back until only the whites showed; soft, delirious giggles bubbled up between whimpers, nonsensical little sounds of pure overload. Drool ran freely now, mixing with the tears streaming down your temples into your hair. Every breath came out shaky, ragged; your chest heaved like you’d run a marathon.

Jake pulled back just enough to breathe, chin and lips shining with you, cheeks flushed dark, nose dripping with your slick, but his eyes were locked on your cunt like it was the only thing that existed. He spread you wide again with both thumbs, admiring the swollen, reddened mess he’d made: outer lips puffy and glistening, inner folds flushed deep pink, clit throbbing visibly, entrance fluttering around nothing, leaking a steady trickle of your release mixed with his spit.

“So pretty,” he rasped, voice hoarse from hours of use. 

He leaned in and started kissing it, open-mouthed presses to the puffy outer lips, like he was making out with your cunt. 

His fingers joined in—two sliding inside you easily, coated in your release and his spit, curling against your g-spot in slow strokes while his thumb rubbed gentle circles over your perineum. He spread the mess everywhere, massaging it into your folds, your clit, your entrance in soothing patterns. He was thorough—methodical—licking every crease, sucking every swollen inch, dipping his tongue inside to trace the tender, fluttering walls.

You were beyond words now—only soft, broken whimpers and occasional mindless giggles escaped your slack mouth. Your body shook with aftershocks that never quite stopped; every touch sent sparks racing up your spine, every suck on your clit made your hips twitch weakly. 

Hours bled together, time lost its meaning the moment his mouth sealed over your cunt.  Your body didn’t belong to you anymore; it belonged to his mouth. You couldn’t form words, couldn’t think, couldn’t even beg properly, just weak mindless moans that spilled out every time he sucked a little harder or thrust his tongue a little deeper. 

His mouth and tongue were exhausted—jaw aching, lips numb and swollen, but he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Every time your pussy fluttered and clenched around nothing, winking at him like it was begging for more, he groaned like a man possessed and dove back in. It was almost hypnotizing him.

He didn’t take breaks. Didn’t give you breaks. When you tried to weakly push at his head—overstimulated, shaking, too much—he only growled low in his throat and pinned your thighs wider, burying his face deeper. “Not done,” he rasped against your cunt. 

It wasn’t until the alarm on his phone blared—sharp, insistent, cutting through the haze—that he finally froze.

The kindergarten pickup alarm.

For a second he just blinked, then reality snapped back. He lifted his head slowly, eyes still glassy, and you whined loudly at the loss, hips jerking toward his mouth instinctively, chasing the warmth.

“Shhh,” he soothed immediately, voice rough from hours of use. “Quiet down, mama.”

You went still, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as he reached for his phone on the coffee table. He wiped his slick fingers carelessly on his shirt before unlocking the screen. Without hesitation he opened his messages, thumbs flying.

Hey Mom—can you grab the kids from kindergarten today and keep them for a few hours? Something came up, can’t make it. Thank you!

The reply came almost immediately after hitting send. 

Of course, sweetheart. I’ve got them. Take your time.

The second the message popped up, Jake threw the phone across the room—didn’t even look where it landed—and dropped right back between your thighs.

You moaned in pure delight as his mouth sealed over your cunt again. He groaned against you like he’d been denied for years instead of thirty seconds, tongue plunging deep, hands spreading you wide so he could get even closer. “My perfect pussy… gonna take care of you… gonna stay right here…” he mumbled into your folds, voice thick and slurred. 

And he did.

The baby was late—very late. Your due date came and went like a polite guest who forgot to show up. Then a week passed. Then two. By the third week past term, you were still very much pregnant. Walking had become a laborious waddle; every step sent a dull ache through your pelvis and lower back. Sitting hurt. Standing hurt. Lying down was the only relief, but even then the weight pressed on your lungs, your bladder, your everything. You felt like a planet carrying its own moon

Jake hovered like a worried mother hen—sweet, attentive, borderline frantic in the gentlest way. He rubbed your back constantly—firm circles with his warm palms when you stood at the kitchen counter, slow strokes down your spine when you tried to rest on the couch. He helped you in and out of chairs like you were made of porcelain, one hand under your elbow, the other supporting your lower back. Every few hours he’d drop to his knees in front of you, press his lips to your belly, and whisper against the skin: “Whenever you’re ready, little one—we’re all waiting. No rush… but Mommy’s getting tired, yeah? Come say hi soon.”

You tried everything to induce labor. 

The list was long and ridiculous.

You walked laps around the house, through every room while Jake trailed behind, hands hovering in case you needed steadying. You ate spicy food until your tongue burned and your lips tingled as Jake’s eyes watered just watching you eat. You bounced on the yoga ball in the living room for hours—gentle up-and-down motions while the kids giggled and clapped, thinking it was a game. You drank tea by the gallon—bitter and earthy, mug after mug—until the smell made you gag. 

But alas nothing.

“Some babies just like to cook longer,” the midwife said kindly. “Everything looks perfect. Give it time.”

Then one night—three weeks and two days overdue—nothing else had worked, and you were both desperate.

You were lying on your side in bed, pillows wedged everywhere for support, with Jake curled behind you, hands roaming your body. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your spine.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “Maybe it’ll help… maybe it’ll start something.”

You nodded—too tired to argue, too needy to say no.

He slid into you from behind, groaning low when your walls welcomed him, still so plush and sensitive from years of use and started a gentle rhythm. 

You moaned, hips pushing back instinctively even as your body protested the effort. He kissed your neck, your jaw, murmuring praises: “So beautiful… carrying my baby so well…” 

When you came, he groaned and followed—burying himself deep, hips grinding in tight circles as he came inside you, thick and hot, filling you until it leaked out around his cock despite how tightly you held him. He didn’t pull out. He stayed buried, one hand stroking your belly like he could coax the baby out with love alone.

“Maybe they’ll feel it… maybe they’ll know Daddy’s ready.”

The next morning you woke to the first real contraction. Sharp. Low. Undeniable.

It gripped low in your pelvis, squeezed like a fist, held for a solid forty seconds, then slowly let go, leaving you breathless and wide-eyed in the quiet room. You gasped, hand flying to your stomach on pure instinct. 

Jake woke instantly—like someone had hit the eject button on his sleep. His eyes snapped open, hair a chaotic nest, one arm still flung over your waist from spooning you all night. “I’m up! I’m up!” he yelped, voice thick with sleep and sudden adrenaline, already scrambling upright so fast the mattress bounced. He looked around wildly for a second like he expected the baby to just pop out onto the sheets, then zeroed in on you. “Contraction? Is it—holy shit, is it happening?”

You nodded, breathing through the lingering ache. “Yeah… it’s starting. For real this time.”

Jake blinked once—processing—then exploded into motion like a caffeinated tornado. “Okayokayokay—bags are by the door, right? Right. Car seat’s already in the van. Phone—where’s my phone—shit, it’s charging—got it!” He lunged for the nightstand, nearly knocking over the water glass, then spun back to you with the urgency of a man who’d just remembered the house was on fire. “Do you need anything? Heat pack? Snacks? Do we have time for snacks? Wait—no—hospital first—snacks later—do you want me to carry you? I can carry you. I once carried all the kids—well, not at once, but you get it—”

You couldn’t help it. Even through the next building contraction you started laughing—soft, breathless, a little delirious. “Jake,” you managed between breaths, “breathe. You’re panicking more than me.”

He froze mid-sentence, mid-reach for the hospital bag, and looked at you like you’d just spoken in tongues. “I’m not panicking. I’m… efficiently preparing..”

You raised one eyebrow, hand still cradling your belly as another wave started to crest. “You just asked if we have time for snacks. While I’m literally in labor.”

He blinked. Then grinned. “Okay maybe a little panicking..” He helped you sit up, then started making calls. His mom answered on the first ring; the kids would be picked up, fed, loved, no problem. He arranged a backup with your parents, then turned back to you with that same lopsided grin you’d fallen in love with years ago. “Team’s on standby. Van’s ready. Your personal chauffeur is reporting for duty.” He offered his arm like a gentleman from a period drama. “Your ride awaits, my queen.” 

You laughed—another contraction starting—and took his hand. “Lead the way, my frantic knight.” 

He helped you down the stairs, bag slung over his shoulder, free arm wrapped securely around your waist. When you paused halfway down to breathe through another wave, he just held you, rubbing your back, counting softly in your ear until it passed. 

By the time you reached the van he was humming, helping you into the passenger seat like you were fragile treasure. He buckled you in, kissed your belly one last time (“Be nice to Mommy on the ride, little miss”), then slid into the driver’s seat. As he started the engine, he glanced over at you—eyes shining.

“Ready?”

You squeezed his fingers, smiling through the next contraction. “Ready when you are.”

Jake cried happy, quiet tears as he held your baby girl after birth—tiny, perfect, dark hair like his, eyes already searching for you. He kissed her forehead gently, then leaned over to kiss yours, voice thick with emotion: “Thank you—for everything.”

Nine kids. Nine beautiful, healthy, wild, perfect kids. You and Jake were proud parents—exhausted but fulfilled. It was the end. You both agreed: this was it. No more. Your family was complete.

Until one sunny afternoon one of your sons pointed at your stomach during dinner and declared, “There’s more babies there!” You and Jake burst out laughing, shaking your heads—“No, silly, that’s just Mommy’s dinner.”

But two weeks later you held up a positive pregnancy test in the bathroom, heart pounding. When you showed Jake, his jaw opened wide in pure, stunned shock. Surprise crashed over his face: eyes huge, mouth falling open, frozen for a heartbeat. 

It didn’t take long to figure out the culprits. You were taking out the bedroom trash when you noticed clear liquid leaking under the bag. Curious, you dug around until you fished it out—and froze. A tied-off condom with a small, unmistakable hole right at the tip. JYou stared at it in disbelief, then marched to the bathroom where Jake was brushing his teeth.

He took one look at your face—and the condom dangling from your fingers—and his eyes widened comically. “…Oh no.” “Oh no is right,” you said, holding it up. But that wasn’t the only reason. Clue two came the next day. Jake was digging through the kitchen trash looking for a toy his son had dramatically “thrown away” during a game when he pulled out an empty fertility pill bottle—the same one he’d stashed in the back of the cabinet, the one he swore to throw away but never quite did. The bottle was empty. He froze. You walked in just as he was staring at it in horror. Your two middle daughters—sweet, innocent, always trying to “help Mommy feel better”—were standing nearby with guilty little faces. Jake held up the bottle. “Girls… where did all these go?” They looked at each other, then at the floor. “Sweethearts,” you asked, carefully, “do you know anything about this?” The older of the two looked at her little sister, then back at you. “We… thought they were white chocolate chips,” she whispered. Jake choked on air. You blinked. “White… chocolate… chips?” They nodded solemnly. “We wanted to make you special muffins. So you’d feel happy. We put all the little white things in the batter and made sure you ate them all because you love muffins!” Silence. Then Jake burst out laughing—head in his hands, shoulders shaking—while you stared at your daughters in stunned disbelief. “You… dumped an entire bottle of Daddy’s special vitamins into muffins… and fed them all to mama?” They nodded proudly. “You ate every one! You said they were yummy!” The girls beamed, thinking they’d done something wonderful. “Okay,” you managed to say. “No more baking without Mommy or Daddy supervising. Ever.” Jake agreed. “And no more ‘white chocolate chips’ from Daddy’s cabinet.” Later that night—after tucking everyone in—you and Jake sat on the bed. “So,” he said, voice soft, hand resting on your stomach. “Broken condom… plus a full bottle of fertility pills baked into muffins… equals baby number ten.” You laughed—quiet, disbelieving. “It’s ridiculous.” He pulled you close, kissing your temple, then your lips—slow, tender. Somewhere inside you, a tiny heartbeat was already starting to form—proof that even when you tried to stop, the universe (and two mischievous little girls) had other plans.

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You always woke up first. That was just the way it went.

The early sun never failed to warm your face through the slightly cracked blinds of your shared bedroom, golden light slipping across the foot of the bed like it belonged there.

Jake’s arm was slung heavy around your waist, his breath slow and deep against the nape of your neck, and just a little too warm. One of his legs was tangled with yours, as if even in his sleep he couldn’t stand to be far from you.

And at the foot of the bed, curled up with a stuffed gray bunny that was beginning to unravel at the seams, was James— Jihoon when he was in trouble.

Five years old. Barely able to tie his shoes right, but already carrying Jake’s stubbornness in his bones.

You shifted gently, trying not to wake Jake as you slipped out from under his hold.

He grumbled something incoherent in his sleep and reached out for you, but you were already halfway to the kitchen.

It wasn’t long before little feet padded after you, and then James was clambering onto a chair at the table, face still puffy with sleep, hair a mess.

“Toast?” you asked.

He nodded, rubbing at one eye. “With honey.”

You ruffled his hair before turning to the counter. “You’re getting too used to sweet things in the morning.”

“It makes me run faster,” he insisted, already kicking his legs under the table like he had a hundred miles of energy to spend.

Behind you, you heard Jake’s heavy steps thudding down the hallway, groggy and shirtless, his curls a wild mess. He kissed your shoulder as he passed, then bent over to ruffle Jihoon’s hair too.

“Morning, champ.”

“Morning,” James beamed. “Can we box today?”

Jake laughed as he sat down. “You wanna box again?”

James nodded so hard his curls bounced. “I’m gonna be a boxer just like you!”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just buttered the toast. Carefully.

Jake noticed. Of course he did.

After six years, he could read you better than anyone. “We’ll be careful,” he said softly, glancing at you over James’ head.

“Boxing’s not a game,” you replied quietly. “It’s not— it’s not something I want him dreaming of every night.”

Jake’s eyes softened, and he reached for your hand as you placed the plate of toast down. “I know, I know it scares you. But he doesn’t see the blood or the bruises. He just sees his dad being strong.”

You looked at him, feeling your chest ache. “That’s exactly why I’m scared.”

James munched on his toast without a care in the world, his feet swinging. “Can I come to your next match?” he asked suddenly, crumbs on his lips. “Please, please, please, pleeeeeease?”

Jake blinked, surprised. “What, the next one? That’s in two days, James.”

“I’m big enough,” he declared, sitting up straighter. “I wanna watch, I wanna cheer. Please, mommy?”

You looked at him, at his big, pleading eyes.

At the innocence behind them.

And then you looked at Jake, with the same eyes who looked torn between pride and guilt. It wasn’t fair— how much James looked like both of you at once, how easily he could tug at your heart.

You sighed. “We’ll see.”

Which really meant yes. Because you were never good at saying no when it came to them.

That night, you helped James into Jake’s old boxing gloves. They were far too big, slipping past his wrists, practically swallowing his arms.

He tried to throw punches, but they were mostly flailing motions that made Jake laugh until he was nearly wheezing on the floor.

You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to smile too much.

Jake caught your eye, cheeks flushed, a sheen of sweat on his collarbones from messing around with James. “See? He’s a natural.”

“He’s five.”

“He’s my kid, he’s gonna be unstoppable.”

James fell over trying to jab at Jake’s leg. “Gotcha!” he shouted.

Jake swooped down and scooped him up, holding him upside down while James shrieked with laughter. “You got me, huh? You sure about that?”

“Daaaaaaad!”

“You gonna knock me out one day, champ?”

“Yeah! One punch!”

You bit back a laugh as you walked over, flicking Jake’s shoulder. “Put him down before he vomits dinner.”

“Fine,” Jake groaned, dropping James onto the couch. “You both take all the fun out of my life.”

James poked his tongue out at him. “No I don’t. I’m your best fun.”

Jake looked at him for a long second, eyes warm, and then over at you. “You both are.”

Two nights later, the arena smelled like sweat and nerves.

You had James on your lap, his little legs tucked close to his chest, his hands gripping a paper cup of juice too tightly.

The crowd was loud, the lights bright, and your heart was beating way too fast for someone who wasn’t even in the ring.

Jake stepped into the spotlight wearing his mouthguard and gloves, robe slung low over his shoulders.

He looked fierce. Serious. Beautiful. Like the fighter you’d first met back in college, when he was reckless and full of fire, but still somehow managed to be the kindest boy you’d ever known.

Jihoon bounced excitedly. “There he is! Look, mom, look!”

“I see him, baby.”

The bell rang.

The fight started.

And something was wrong.

You could tell, even if the others couldn’t.

Jake’s steps weren’t as light, his dodges not as quick. The other guy was aggressive, coming in hard and fast, and Jake—he was getting hit. A lot.

Your stomach twisted.

“Mom,” James said, his voice small now. “Why’s dad not winning?”

“He’s trying,” you whispered, arms tightening around him. “He’s okay, he’s— he’s just warming up.”

But then Jake stumbled. His lip was split.

His shoulder sagged like he’d pulled something.

And your son started to panic.

“Mom, he’s hurt. We gotta go help him.”

“James, no, listen to me— he’s gonna be okay, you can’t—”

But your words weren’t fast enough.

James wriggled out of your arms before you could catch him, ducking under the security rope, sprinting across the edge of the crowd.

Someone shouted. You were on your feet, your heart in your throat, but James was already halfway to the ring.

“Jihoon!”

He scrambled up through the ropes, small enough to slip between them, and ran straight to his father.

Jake didn’t even notice at first, too dazed by the last punch.

“Stop the fight!” you screamed. “Stop it, my son’s in there!”

The ref blew his whistle furiously, waving his arms. The other boxer dropped his stance immediately, confused.

Jake blinked down— and froze.

“Champ?”

James launched into his chest, wrapping his tiny arms around his waist. “Don’t let him hit you again! I’ll fight him for you!”

Your vision blurred with tears as you rushed down toward the ring.

Someone opened the gate for you, and you ruan inside, breath shaking, legs trembling.

Jake had dropped to one knee, one arm around James, the other shaking as he pulled his mouthguard out.

“Hey,” he whispered. “What are you doing, buddy? You can’t be in here.”

“You were losing,” James mumbled, clutching him tighter. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Jake let out a laugh that sounded like it hurt. “I’m okay. It’s just a match.”

“You were bleeding.”

Jake looked up at you then, and his face — Lord, his face —he looked so sorry. So wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve never let him come. This was too much.”

You knelt down beside them, pulling James into your arms, running a hand through his hair. “You scared me,” you whispered. “You can’t run off like that, Jihoon. Ever.”

“I’m sorry,” he sniffled. “I just— I didn’t want him to lose.”

Jake leaned in, pressing a kiss to both your foreheads. “I’ll never lose anything that matters, okay? Because I’ve already got you.”

The crowd was murmuring. Officials were everywhere. The match was called off.

Jake was disqualified, but he didn’t care.

All he cared about was you. And James. Safe. In his arms.

Later, in the locker room, after everyone had gone, Jake sat with James asleep in his arms, still wearing one glove that dwarfed his hand.

You sat beside him, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Promise me,” you murmured, “that if he really wants to fight when he’s older…you’ll teach him how to be smart. How to be safe.”

Jake nodded, kissing the top of Jihoon’s curls. “I promise. But for now…I just want him to dream about anything else. Anything safer.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “You scared me tonight.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you, Jake.”

He turned, eyes soft. “I love you too.”

And in that quiet moment, with your son snoring softly between you and the world finally still, you felt it again— that fragile, powerful kind of happiness that could only exist when you had everything you loved right there in your arms.

☆.

It was supposed to be your morning to sleep in.

The deal was sacred: on Sundays, or holidays, or any day the world wasn’t demanding something from the two of you at dawn, one of you got to stay in bed while the other kept James entertained.

It had been years of trial and error, balancing exhaustion with parenting, love with chaos, but you’d found your rhythm.

This morning, you were supposed to be nestled in the warmth of the blankets while Jake took James to the kitchen for cereal and cartoons.

You’d heard them shuffling around in the other room— Jake’s low, sleepy voice, and James, wide awake, asking if he could have two bowls because he was ‘super strong today’.

But instead of dozing off again like you usually did, a sharp pain twisted through your stomach, a heat blooming behind your navel and spreading like fire.

You jolted upright, cold sweat already rising on the back of your neck, and before you could think or breathe or blink, you were rushing out of bed.

The bathroom door hit the wall when you shoved it open, and you barely made it to the toilet in time before your stomach gave out.

Violent, sudden.

Your knees hit the tile hard as your body curled in on itself.

“Baby?” Jake’s voice, thick with sleep, came from the hallway.

You couldn’t answer. The retching had stolen all the air from your lungs.

There were small footsteps, bare feet padding quick against the floor, and then James’s voice, high and worried. “Mommy?”

Jake was there a moment later, crouching beside you, his hand on your back.

“Shit— hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He was rubbing gentle circles into your spine, his other hand brushing the damp strands of hair from your forehead.

You forced yourself upright, gasping, “Phone. Get me my phone.”

Jake didn’t waste time asking questions. He was up in a flash, bolting down the hall.

But it was James who surprised you.

He knelt beside you, mimicking his father’s earlier movements, his tiny fingers clumsy as they gathered your hair and held it back.

“I’m here, Mommy,” he whispered. “You’re okay. Daddy’s coming.”

You shut your eyes for a second, heart swollen even through the pain. “Thank you, baby.”

Jake returned a beat later, sliding to the floor with your phone in one hand, his other reaching out to feel your forehead. “You’re burning up. Do you want me to call the doctor? What do you need?”

You didn’t answer at first, just searched the appa until you found the period tracker one.

You looked at him — really looked at him — and said, hoarse and quiet, “My period’s late.”

That madew him pause.

He glanced briefly at James, still by your side, loyal and worried and trying so hard to be brave.

“Late?” he asked.

You nodded. “Like…late late. And I know July’s always weird for me, and sometimes it skips, but this… this isn’t like that. This is…”

Jake caught on. He stood and reached for the bathroom cabinet before you could finish.

His hand went straight to the little white box buried behind cough syrup and cotton pads. The spare test.

He held it up. “This?”

You nodded, pressing a palm against your stomach as another wave of nausea rolled over you.

Jake knelt again and gently coaxed James to his feet. “Hey, buddy. Can you go watch TV for a bit? I’ll bring you snacks soon, I promise.”

“But—Mommy—”

“She’ll be okay,” Jake said, smoothing a hand over James’ss head. “I promise. Just give us a few minutes.”

James hesitated, looking from you to Jake, before finally nodding and stepping out of the room with one last glance over his shoulder.

You leaned back against the wall, breath shaky. Jake helped you up and steadied you with an arm around your waist.

“I’ll wait out there,” he said quietly, placing the test in your hand.

“No,” You looked up at him, eyes wide. “Don’t go.”

He hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Alright. I’m here.”

The test took less than a minute to take. But it felt like a year.

You placed it on the edge of the sink, both of you staring at it like it might jump to life and scream the answer at you.

You were still sitting on the toilet lid, knees tucked up, your arms hugging them to your chest.

Jake sat across from you on the closed tub, elbows on his thighs, eyes flicking between the floor and your face and the tiny plastic stick.

You broke the silence. “We weren’t planning this.”

Jake gave a breathy laugh that had no humor in it. “We weren’t really planning anything back then, either… when we had James.”

“That was different,” you said.

He met your eyes. “Was it?”

You bit your lip, chest tightening. “It feels scarier now.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a second. Then he moved closer, kneeling in front of you.

His hands found yours, his fingers cold from the tile but steady. “Whatever it says…you’re not alone in this. You’re never alone, love.”

“I threw up everywhere.”

“Still not alone.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, and for the first time since the pain had woken you up, you let yourself cry.

Just a little.

Jake held you through it, fingers curling into your hair, his lips pressing against your temple.

When the ten minutes were up, the test was still face-down on the sink.

Jake turned it over.

He didn’t say anything at first.

You looked at his face, trying to read it. He was too still. His jaw clenched once, then loosened.

His eyes flicked up to yours, wide and stunned.

You stood slowly, walking to the sink, feeling your heartbeat rattle in your ribs.

You saw the two lines.

Pregnant.

Your stomach swooped. Your hands trembled.

“Oh my god.”

Jake was behind you in a second. His hands came around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder.

“That’s real,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

“That’s real.” you said, more convinced.

Jake nodded, kissing your cheek softly. “Looks like we’re doing it again.”

You turned in his arms, eyes brimming, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “What if I can’t handle it? What if it’s too much?”

“You will handle it,” he said firmly. “Because you’re strong. And because I’m here, and we already made the best little human in the world. We can do it again.”

You clung to him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “He’s gonna be a big brother.”

Jake pulled back just enough to smile at you. Really smile. “Can you imagine him? With a little sibling running after him?”

“He’ll boss them around.”

“He’ll protect them.”

You laughed again, eyes still blurry with emotion. “We need to tell him.”

Jake looked toward the door. “Now?”

You paused. “Not yet. Let’s just…hold it, just for a little bit. Just ours.”

He nodded. “Just ours.”

There was still pain. Still nausea. Still fear.

But Jake was here. You were here. And there was life, again, starting inside you.

Another heartbeat waiting to be loved.

☆.

You never liked hospitals.

They always smelled too clean, too sharp, like something was being covered up.

But you went anyway, let Yunjin drive you in her little too-fast-for-comfort car with her playlist blaring.

She didn’t let you argue. Not when she saw the look on your face after the test. Not when she showed up with a fresh croissant and a determined, no-bullshit attitude.

“I’m not letting you stay in bed and Google symptoms until you give yourself a panic attack,” she said. “We’re going to the doctor. I’ll hold your hand, throw up with you, whatever you need.”

True to her word, she was there when you lay back on the crinkly white paper of the exam table, heart in your throat, the sonographer squeezing warm gel onto your skin.

She didn’t let go of your hand once.

AAnd there it was.

That flickering heartbeat.

Tiny. So small it didn’t feel real until it pulsed across the screen like a drum.

You stared at it, lips parted, heart unraveling. The image was hazy, grainy, but it was there, this new, growing piece of you. Of Jake. Of your family.

You cried, of course. You always cried at these kinds of things, even if you tried not to.

Yunjin blinked hard a few times herself. “You’re really doing this again, huh?”

You laughed, a watery sound. “God, yeah.”

“You’re stronger than me.”

“No I’m not,” you said. “You’d be amazing.”

She squeezed your hand. “But right now, this baby’s gonna have the coolest mom on earth… and well, aunt, duh!”

When you finally did tell your son, Jake was the one who brought it up.

James had been building a Lego tower in the living room, lying on his stomach in his little dinosaur pajamas, humming to himself.

Jake sat beside you on the couch, his hand on your thigh, a soft press of reassurance.

“Hey, bud,” Jake said, ruffling his son’s hair, “we’ve got something kinda cool to tell you.”

James looked up, blinking, pieces of Lego clutched in each hand. “What?”

Jake looked at you. You nodded, and he smiled. “You’re gonna be a big brother.”

James blinked again. “What?”

You leaned forward. “There’s a baby growing in my tummy, sweetheart.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, “A baby? In there?” He pointed, alarmed, at your belly, which still looked more like you’d eaten too much lunch than anything else.

You laughed. “Yeah. In there.”

His mouth dropped open. “Is it gonna pop out soon?”

“Not soon,” Jake said. “You’ve got a few months, but eventually, yeah.”

James crawled closer, pressing his little hand against your shirt like he was trying to feel the baby through your skin. “Is it a girl?”

“We don’t know yet,” you said.

He tilted his head, clearly deep in thought. “Will it like dinosaurs?”

“I hope so,” Jake said, laughing.

James was quiet again for a moment, looking at you, then Jake, then back to you. “Do I have to share my snacks?”

You smiled. “Only if you want to.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said solemnly. “But only if it doesn’t touch my T-rex.”

“Deal,” Jake said.

And just like that, James accepted it.

Sort of. He had questions, of course— How does the baby breathe? Will it be loud? What if it’s a girl and doesn’t like trucks?

But in the end, he was still the sweetest baby boy on earth.

☆.

The first trimester was cruel.

The toilet became your closest companion.

Mornings were the worst: your body felt hijacked, your stomach constantly roiling, everything smelling too strong or too wrong.

Jake woke up every day with you, even when his eyes were heavy with sleep and his matches were approaching.

Even when his training hours stretched him thin. He still tried to take up time to stay with you, to train younger boxers instead of boxing himself.

But what surprised you most was James.

He’d peek into the bathroom every morning, hair sticking out in wild directions, clutching his little stuffed dinosaur by the arm.

And if Jake wasn’t already holding your hair back, James would quietly step in and do it.

He never complained.

He just stood there with a serious look on his face and said things like, “You’re doing a good job, Mommy,” or “It’s okay. Sometimes I throw up when I eat too much candy, too.”

Jake started calling him your bodyguard.

James puffed his chest with pride every time.

Sometimes, when the nausea got bad enough, Jake would carry you to bed, settle behind you, and James would crawl in on your other side and whisper stories to the baby. “Today I drew a robot. When you come out, I’ll draw you, too.”

It was in that moment that you realised you had won in life.

.

☆.

Valentine’s Day wasn’t usually a big deal for the two of you.

You’d never been the candlelight-dinner, wine-glass-clinking, heart-shaped-everything type of couple.

Your love was built on early mornings and grocery runs, on whispered goodnights and holding hands during hospital appointments, on parenting and partnership and choosing each other again and again, even on the days when your patience was thin and the dishes were stacked high in the sink.

But this year felt different.

You woke up to the soft creak of your bedroom door opening and the quiet shuffle of socks across the floor.

Your belly was heavy, so round and taut it felt like you were a balloon stretched to its final inch of give.

And you were tired. So tired.

But when you opened your eyes, you saw them— Jake, holding a bouquet of slightly squashed red roses, and James peeking from behind his leg with something hidden behind his back.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Jake murmured, kneeling on the edge of the bed and brushing a kiss against your forehead.

James stepped forward, biting his lip, then presented you with…a crayon drawing of what looked like three lopsided people holding hands. “This is us,” he explained proudly. “That’s you, and that’s Daddy, and that’s me, the little one in your belly is a circle. I didn’t know if it’s a girl or a boy.”

You took it like it was the most precious thing in the world. Maybe it was.

Jake handed you the flowers with a sheepish smile. “James wanted to get you chocolates, but I told him flowers are important too.”

“Mommy should have both,” James declared.

“You taught him well,” you said, kissing your husband’s lips. Then you reached under in the bedside table drawer and pulled out a wrapped box you’d hidden last night. “And so did I.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “What is this?”

“Open it.”

He unwrapped it to find a tin of dark chocolate truffles and a new pair of wraps for training —embroidered with Best Father Farter across the edge.

His smile cracked wide. “Oh my god.” he laughed loudly “I love them!”

James clambered onto the bed between you both. “Can we eat cake now?”

“After lunch,” you said, laughing. “But yes. Later, we’ll eat cake.”

Jake cooked lunch while you sat on a stool in the kitchen, rubbing your belly and trying to ignore the low ache that had been bothering you all morning.

James danced around in his socks, insisting on wearing a tie for ‘the special day’c and you let him because he looked too cute not to.

The cake was store-bought, a simple one with little pink sugar hearts, but James was excited about it like it was some magical treasure.

You stood up to grab a knife to cut the first slice.

You didn’t even make it to the drawer.

Pop.

The sound wasn’t loud, but you felt it in your body, a deep, sudden release of pressure.

Warmth gushed down your legs.

You froze.

Jake, mid-laugh, stopped. “Did you— did you drop something?”

You looked down at your soaked pants. Then up at him.

“Oh my god.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Is that—? Is it happening?!”

“Yes! Jake, yes— go grab the hospital bag!”

James gasped, horrified. “You peed yourself?!”

“I didn’t pee myself, baby,” you said through gritted teeth as the first cramp twisted through your belly. “The baby’s coming.”

James blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

Jake was moving at light speed— or maybe no speed at all.

He dropped the bouquet. Nearly tripped over James.

Grabbed his phone, then the car keys, then forgot both again.

“Okay, bag— hospital bag, where’s the— where did we—where did you put it?”

“By the door, Jake!” you snapped. “Where it’s always been.”

He stumbled off, yelling back, “I knew that! I’m calm!”

“You’re not calm!”

James was clinging to your leg like a baby koala. “Is the baby falling out right now?”

“No,” you hissed, hand gripping the table as another contraction hit, sharp and fast. “But soon if we don’t move.”

“Should I call someone?” Jake shouted from the hall.

“Yes! Call Yunjin. She needs to come stay with James!”

“I’m already on it!” he yelled back, fumbling his phone.

Yunjin picked up after two rings.

“You’re gonna want to get here,” Jake said, voice too high. “It’s happening. She’s— her water broke. Like actually broke. It’s go time.”

You grabbed the phone from him as he rushed back in. “Yunjin, please— just get here.”

“I’m on my way, don’t panic,” she said, though you could hear the smile in her voice. “Tell James I’ll bring candy.”

“I’ll tell him if I survive.”

You handed the phone back to Jake, your hands trembling. “Get the car ready. I’ll get shoes.”

“You’re not getting anything. I’m carrying you.”

“Jake—”

“I’m carrying you,” he repeated, gently but firmly.

James watched the whole scene unfold like a movie, his eyes wide. “Will it hurt?”

You knelt down, wincing, brushing his cheek. “Yeah, honey. It’s going to hurt. Daddy’s going to be with me, don’t worry. you’re gonna be the best big brother ever.”

He nodded, lip trembling. “I’ll tell the baby that I love her.”

Jake kissed his forehead, voice thick. “You tell her that in person. We’ll be back with your sister soon.”

The hospital was a blur of fluorescent lights and quick footsteps and voices that felt like they were underwater. m

The pain hit in waves, and each time it crashed, you wanted to scream— but you didn’t.

Not yet. Not until it got worse.

And god, it got worse.

Nine hours of it.

Jake never left your side, not for a second.

You yelled at him at least three times.

“Stop talking,” you growled at him during hour five, when he was trying to distract you with some nonsense story about his first amateur fight.

He shut up. Immediately. Nodded like a soldier.

Later, when you were gripping the rail of the bed so hard your knuckles went white, you hissed, “I hate you.”

“I know,” he said.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Got it.”

“Wait, no— touch me again.”

He grabbed your hand without hesitation. “Right here.”

You screamed. He let you crush his fingers.

And when it finally happened,.

the world shrank to pressure and burning and breathless, broken sounds, you gave one last push and everything stopped.

Then—

A cry.

High and raw and brand new.

They placed her on your chest, and your hands shook when they curled around her tiny, wriggling body.

She was pink and warm and squalling like she was furious about the whole ordeal.

You sobbed.

Jake sobbed more.

Your forehead pressed to hers as you whispered, “Hi, baby. Hi, Jane… Hi, Jiheon.”

Jake kissed your temple a hundred times, his face wet with tears. “You did it. You did so good.”

“She’s so small,” you whispered.

“She’s perfect.”

You looked at her again, this little piece of you and Jake and everything that had ever been good between you.

You were exhausted, ripped open and aching, but she was here.

Your daughter.

And she was worth it all.

☆.

The world came back slowly.

Not in one clean breath, but in fragments, blinking against the dim hospital room light, the hum of machines, the sterile scent of disinfectant layered beneath something warm.

Familiar.

Jake’s cologne.

Your throat was dry, lips cracked, body heavy— wrecked didn’t even begin to describe it.

Your stomach ached with the aftershock of labor, your muscles trembling in the stillness, and for a moment, you couldn’t even tell what time it was.

Everything had blurred together into hours of pain, blood, cries, and the weight of her tiny body on your chest before darkness finally pulled you under.

But now—now it was night.

The sky outside the narrow window was ink-dark, the city lights dulled by the thickness of the glass.

You shifted just slightly, wincing at the soreness that radiated through your hips and spine, and turned your head.

He was there.

Jake was sitting in the corner chair beside your bed, hunched forward with a blanket cradled against his chest, shoulders curved inward like a shield.

His hair was a mess,, and his eyes were fixed on her with an expression so full of awe it punched the breath right out of your lungs.

He was crying. Quietly.

Not the dramatic, shaking kind of crying— just slow, steady tears, running along the curve of his jaw and down to his neck as he stared at his daughter.

“Jaeyun…” Your voice cracked like ice underfoot.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at you at first.

“She’s sleeping,” he whispered, brushing one callused thumb over her cheek, his voice so soft it barely stirred the air. “She has your nose.”

You watched him from the bed, your vision still cloudy, but yourr heart was awake now.

He looked so still, so unlike the chaotic Jake you’d known for years.

Not the boy who forgot his keys five times a week.

Not the man who cheered too loud at James’s school recitals. This was something different.

This was a father. Again.

You reached out with a hand that shook from effort. “Let me see her.”

Jake finally turned, startled like he hadn’t realized you were awake.

He sniffed, blinking hard as he carefully got up. “You’re awake,” he said, voice cracking. “God, you— are you okay? You fainted right after they took her. They said you were just exhausted, but you were out. I thought—” He paused. Swallowed. “I’ve been watching you sleep for hours.”

You blinked slowly. “You’re not supposed to say that like it’s romantic, stalker.”

That got a breath of laughter out of him, ragged and wet. He came to the side of the bed, kneeling so he could ease Jane down into your arms. “Here,” he murmured. “Hold her again.”

You adjusted your pillow, barely able to sit up.

But he helped, supporting your back, brushing the strands of hair away from your damp forehead. And then she was there, small and warm and impossibly real in your arms again.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered. “Hi, little Jane.”

“Jiheon,” Jake added softly. “That’s what I’ve been calling her. She likes it… i think. She keeps making this face when I say it— look.” He leaned in and repeated it again in a whisper, “Jiheon.”

Jane shifted slightly, scrunching her face before relaxing again. A barely-there smile tugged at Jake’s lips.

“You look like a dad of two now,” you murmured, brushing your finger along her hair. “There’s something different in your face.”

“I feel different.” He pressed his forehead to your shoulder and just breathed there for a second. “Like… more breakable.”

You rested your cheek on top of Jane’s head and closed your eyes. “You’re not. You’re stronger than you think.”

He pulled back and sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle either of you. “Do you remember what you said during hour seven?”

“Which part? I said a lot of things.”

“You said if I ever touched you again, you’d break my nose.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still stands. For a while.”

Jake grinned and leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Fair. I’ll wait.”

You both sat there for a while, in the stillness that only came in the dead of night, surrounded by beeping monitors and the soft breathing of your daughter.

After a while, he reached out and brushed the back of his finger over Jane’s tiny fist. “She’s got my ears.”

You snorted. “Poor girl.”

He laughed, pulling the blanket higher around your shoulders. “James is gonna love her.”

“He already does,” you said. “He kept talking to my belly like it was a walkie-talkie.”

Jake smiled again, softer now. “He’s gonna be the best big brother.”

You were quiet for a while.

Just breathing. Just holding her.

And him holding you.

Then, your voice cracked the silence, barely a whisper.

“Thank you.”

Jake blinked. “For what?”

“For giving me them.” You looked down at Jane. “For giving me you.”

His face crumpled a little. “You gave me everything back.”

☆.

Coming home was a blur of motion and scent and warmth—soft clothes, white noise, the lingering chill of February air clinging to your coats and hair as you stepped into the house with a car seat cradled between both hands.

Jane was still asleep.

That delicate, floating sleep only newborns seem capable of, where their tiny chests rise like feathers and fall again, their mouths puckering occasionally, eyelashes still damp against their cheeks.

Your arms ached from holding her, your legs felt like jelly, and your stomach was a quilt of stretched skin and healing muscle, but lord— you were finally home.

Jake carried the bags in with one arm and hovered behind you like you might fall at any second.

His hand was low on your back. “You okay?”

“I’m… tired,” you admitted, your voice raspy with lack of sleep and recovery, but your eyes were clear. “But yeah, I’m okay.”

“Good. I want this moment to be good.”

You looked over at him. “It will be.”

James had been waiting by the window.

The second you stepped inside, his feet came skidding over the hardwood floors in his socks, eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly open.

“Where is she?” he breathed, like he was waiting to see a mythical creature.

Jake gently nudged the car seat toward him. “She’s sleeping. Be soft, okay?”

James crouched like it was some sacred ritual, his tiny fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.

He peeked in with a squint, nose wrinkling, face twisted in deep thought.

He blinked.

Then frowned.

“…She’s kind of ugly,” he declared.

Jake choked on a laugh, reaching to ruffle his hair. “Hey.”

“But it’s okay,” James continued with a shrug. “She’s a baby. I heard some people get plastic surgery when they grow up. She can do that if she wants.”

You pressed a hand to your mouth, stifling a snort. “She’s not ugly.”

“She looks like a wrinkly potato.”

“That’s cause she just came out,,” Jake said solemnly, kneeling beside him. “She’ll look better after some milk and sleep.”

James tilted his head, clearly unsure how to feel. “She smells like butt.”

You bent down beside them both, the ache in your legs sharp but ignorable.

Jane stirred a little, her mouth making a soft sucking noise, her hands twitching. “You smelled worse when you were born.”

James’s eyes widened like you’d just told him he was adopted. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Jake chimed in. “You pooped on me twice in the first week.”

James’ face lit up. “Can I hold her?”

“In a bit,” you said, brushing your fingers along his hair. “After she’s fed. And once we’re on the couch.”

He nodded, serious. “I’ll wait.”

☆.

The days passed like smoke curling around your head—soft and slow and smothering all at once.

Jane didn’t sleep unless she was on someone’s chest.

Your chest. Jake’s chest. Occasionally James’s, when he insisted on sitting perfectly still on the couch, puffed up with responsibility.

Your nights bled into mornings, your mornings into afternoons.

You could barely tell what day it was anymore. You were always either nursing, changing, soothing, or trying to catch a moment of quiet to breathe.

But even in the chaos, there were moments that glowed— small, quiet glimmers of peace.

James tiptoed more than he used to. He would pad into your bedroom at two a.m., rubbing his eyes, clutching his dinosaur plushie under one arm.

“Is she okay?” he’d whisper.

“She’s just hungry,” you’d whisper back.

Sometimes he’d crawl into the bed next to you and lie on Jake’s other side, close enough to reach for your elbow. He didn’t ask for lullabies anymore. Just your presence, closeness.

Sometimes he’d doze off again before Jane had even finished nursing.

Other times, he’d stay awake. Just watching.

“I think she likes when you sing,” he murmured one night.

You paused, fingers stroking Jane’s back. “You think?”

He nodded seriously. “Even if you’re a little out of tune.”

And Jake— Jake was different, this time.

The first time around, he’d tried. He really had.

But he was younger, more nervous, too rough around the edges, and there were nights when you’d cried in the shower because you were the one holding everything together.

But not now.

Now he was soft in the ways that mattered.

He remembered the towel you liked best and warmed it in the dryer before you bathed.

He memorized your medications, prepped your bottle without you asking.

He rubbed your feet while Jane fed, whispered affirmations when you broke into tears at 3 a.m. for no reason except that your body wasn’t yours and your brain was drowning and you missed sleeping for more than two hours at a time.

He wasn’t perfect.

He still forgot to put lids back on properly and he still knocked over the baby lotion bottle three times in the same week.

But he had learned you. Learned your limits. Your moods.

What words would help and which wouldn’t. He never made you feel like a burden. Not once.

And when you had nothing left to give— he gave you back to yourself.

You came down one night after a long nap you hadn’t even realized you’d taken, hair sticking to your forehead, your robe askew.

You expected disaster. Bottles unwashed, a screaming baby, maybe Jake asleep on the couch with James up way too late playing video games.

Instead, you found the living room lit in warm lamplight, quiet.

Jake was shirtless, Jane pressed to his chest in the baby wrap, bouncing slightly on his feet as he whispered a lullaby in half-Korean, half-english.

James was curled on the rug with dinosaurs his book, whispering the words to himself, a blanket pulled over his lap.

Your heart cracked open.

Jake looked up and smiled. “She just finished feeding. I pumped from the stash in the fridge, you looked like you needed rest.”

“I did,” you whispered.

“Go back up,” he said. “I’ll bring you tea.”

You hesitated. “I feel guilty.”

“Don’t. You gave her a whole body, we’ll take care of you now.”

You did cry then.

And when Jake wrapped you in his arms that night, you believed him.

You believed that this family, this messy, tired, beautiful family, was being held together not just by your hands, but by all three of theirs.

And that was everything.

☆.

Two years later, the kitchen smelled like strawberries and sunscreen.

It was a Sunday afternoon in early June, sun slanting through the window blinds and painting long, golden stripes across the tiled floor.

The fan hummed softly in the corner, spinning slow circles that barely stirred the air, and Jan e your little girl with her chubby hands and mismatched socks was sitting in her high chair, smearing strawberry juice across her cheeks like war paint.

Jake was crouched beside her, wiping her chin with one of the soft, floral-patterned cloths you insisted on keeping in the drawer.

His hair was still damp from the hose-outside chaos that had been an hour ago— James, laughing as Jake sprayed him down while Jane screamed and clapped from the porch.

Now everything smelled of damp grass and sweetness.

You were at the sink, rinsing a bowl, humming under your breath, tired but soft around the edges with that summer kind of fatigue that didn’t bite.

James sat at the kitchen table, arms folded, face twisted in a look of intense concentration, like he was on the verge of solving the meaning of life.

“Dad?” he said suddenly, sharp like a question he’d been chewing on all morning.

Jake looked over, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, bud?”

James tapped a finger against the table. “How did you and Mom meet?”

You froze mid-rinse, hand still under the stream of water.

Jake blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Why do you wanna know?”

James shrugged, suddenly bashful, eyes darting to the side. “Just curious.”

But you saw the pink flush in his cheeks.

The way he pressed his lips together.

You turned the water off, grabbing a towel, and leaned against the counter just to watch it unfold.

“Wait.” Jake narrowed his eyes playfully. “Did something happen at school?”

James groaned. “Noooo.”

Jake smirked. “Oh my god, it did. Who is she?”

James covered his face with both hands. “Dad, no.”

“She sits next to him,” you supplied, grinning into your towel. “Pretty little thing with the pigtails and glittery pencil case, right?”

James dropped his head to the table with a muffled moan. “You guys are the worst.”

Jake cackled, reaching out to flick his son’s ear. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you how we met, but only if you promise not to laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

James lifted his head, expectant. “Tell me anyway.”

Jake stood, walking toward the fridge to grab a handful more strawberries, before leaning his hip against the counter and settling into storyteller mode.

Jane babbled, still chewing her fruit with delight.

“Well,” Jake began, “your mom hated me.”

“What?” James blinked. “Why?”

You crossed your arms. “Because he was cocky. And late. Constantly.”

“I wasn’t that late.”

“You were twenty-two minutes late to our first study session.”

“Okay, one time—”

“Every time.”

Jake huffed dramatically. “Anyway, we were in college. Same class, I noticed her first. She had this oversized hoodie and earbuds in every time she walked into the lecture hall, and she never talked to anyone.”

“I was tired.”

“Exactly. So mysterious.”

James giggled.

“I tried to sit near her a few times,” Jake continued. “You know, see if I could catch her attention, but she never looked up. So I asked to borrow her notes.”

You raised a brow. “You mean you spilled coffee on your own notes and then cornered me after class.”

Jake grinned at James like it was a badge of honor. “It worked.”

James’ eyes were wide now, totally absorbed. “Then what?”

“She agreed to help me study,” Jake said, placing a hand to his heart like he was reciting poetry. “And the rest… is history.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, it took a while,” Jake added. “Your mom wasn’t easy, she made me work for it.”

“Darn right I did.”

“But then we started spending more time together,” he said. “And she started smiling more. Laughing, she used to pretend she didn’t like me, but I could tell.”

“I didn’t like you.”

Jake shot you a look, grinning. “Tell that to the time you skipped your morning class just to meet me for coffee.”

You scowled playfully. “That was one time. And you had a cold.”

“You brought me soup.”

“Because I’m not a monster.”

James cut in. “Did you kiss?”

Jake opened his mouth, smirking, his eyes shining as if to say and not just that.

You threw a towel at him. “Don’t you dare.”

Jake caught it, snorting. “Yes, we kissed. A lot.”

James made a face. “Ew.”

“And we fell in love,” Jake added, softer now, his smile turning real, almost quiet. “Like, the kind of love where you still want to see their face even when they’re mad at you. The kind where everything feels like home when they walk into the room.”

Your chest squeezed a little.

“She’s still my best friend,” he added. “Even when she makes fun of me for how many times I lose my keys.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s gotten better.”

“Only because you put a tracker on my keychain.”

James giggled again.

“And then,” Jake said, grinning now, “we had you.”

“Wait— how did that happen?” James asked innocently.

Jake froze. You shot him a warning glance. He paled.

“Uh—well, that’s a whole other story.”

James squinted. “Why?”

“Because it’s for grown-ups.”

“But—”

“Nope,” you said firmly, swooping in to pick Jane up from the high chair as she started getting fussy. “You’ll learn in science class.”

James groaned. “Ugh. But science is so boring.”

“Not always,” Jake said under his breath.

“Jaeyun.”

Jake raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay!”

Jane curled against your chest, sticky hands tugging at your shirt, and you kissed her forehead before shifting her to your hip.

“Is that really how you fell in love?” James asked quietly, looking between you both.

Jake looked at you, and you looked at him— and your heart did that warm, foolish little flip it had been doing since the first time he held your hand, since he first made you laugh until you cried.

“Yeah,” you said, brushing your fingers through James’s hair as you passed. “It really is.”

Jake came up behind you, his hand sliding to the small of your back. “Still in love, too.”

You looked up at him. “Even after I threatened to cut your head off if you gave me another baby?”

“Even then.”

James groaned. “You guys are so embarrassing.”

☆.

It was past midnight and the rain hadn’t stopped all day. It tapped gently against the window, like fingertips drumming over glass, soft enough now that it no longer sounded like thunder, but like a lullaby to the tired world.

The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlight that spilled in from between the curtains.

The warmth of the bed wrapped around you both like a cocoon.

The scent of rain still clung faintly to your skin from earlier— just from standing by the door too long, shoes soaked, children loud and chaotic and cooped up.

You were fast asleep now, curled beside Jake under the heavy blankets, your body drawn instinctively to his.

Your hand had found its way to his chest, fingers splayed just over where his heart beat steady.

He could feel your breath on his collarbone, soft and rhythmic, your nose cold against his neck.

He didn’t move. He never did, not when you laid like this.

He only let his arm fold around you tighter, holding you like something sacred.

His eyes didn’t close.

It had been a long day, sure— Jane had tried to flush her brother’s dinosaur down the toilet, James had gotten stuck halfway under the couch trying to retrieve a Lego piece.

But that wasn’t what was keeping Jake awake.

It was your sigh. The small one you let out just minutes ago, right before curling closer to him in your sleep.

It had sounded like comfort. Like home.

And that’s what triggered it.

That memory.

The one he couldn’t forget, even if he tried.

The one from before the house, before the kids, before everything.

The night he almost lost you.

It had been raining then, too. Harder than this. Sharper.

You stood in the middle of a soaked parking lot, your hoodie clinging to your skin like paper, hair plastered to your face, eyes wet with more than just the downpour.

You had just stormed off, away from him.

Jake had followed you out of the gym, his steps echoing behind yours, water sloshing in his shoes, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re not listening to me!” you shouted, spinning around to face him, voice breaking over the sound of the storm. “You never listen to me!”

“I do!” Jake yelled back, stepping closer, teeth clenched. “I always do! But you’re asking me to be someone I’m not!”

“I’m asking you to stop killing yourself in the ring every weekend!” you cried, your voice raw. “I’m asking you to choose something, anything, that doesn’t make me wonder if I’ll get a call saying you won’t come home!”

Jake’s jaw tightened.

Water ran down his face, indistinguishable from the tears in your eyes.

His chest heaved, soaked through, breath misting in the cold air.

“This is all I know,” he said. “Boxing is all I have.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping toward him. “You have me. You have someone who stands outside every goddamn fight praying you don’t bleed out, you have someone who waits up, and worries, and loves you so much it hurts.”

Jake blinked at you, and for a second, he looked like he couldn’t breathe.

And you shook your head. “But maybe that’s not enough. Maybe I’m not enough. Maybe this… us, was a mistake.”

The silence that followed made the rain sound louder. It filled the space between you like a wall.

Jake stepped forward, one slow step at a time, until he was standing in front of you, his hands shaking.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered.

You stared at him, your face trembling, your eyes full of everything you couldn’t say. “Jake—”

“I know I’m reckless, I know I’m a mess, I know I don’t always think. But you…” His hand rose, not touching you yet, hovering like you were a flame he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch. “You’re the only thing that ever made me want to slow down.”

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “I’m so scared of losing you.”

Jake’s hand finally reached you.

His fingers slid into your hair, soaked strands between his knuckles. He leaned in until your foreheads touched.

“I’m scared, too,” he said, eyes shut tight. “Of not being enough. Of being too broken to hold onto you.”

“You’re not,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You’re not broken.”

“I am,” he said, voice cracking. “But I’m better with you.”

The rain came harder then, a sudden gust slamming sideways into your bodies, but neither of you moved.

You were shivering. He was freezing.

The whole world felt like it was falling apart, but Jake looked at you like he’d found the eye of the storm.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t clean.

It was desperate and messy and full of everything you’d both been trying to say. His mouth found yours like he’d been drowning and just found air.

Your hands clung to his soaked hoodie, your body pressed to his like you’d never let him go.

Jake remembered how your tears had mixed with the rain, how his fingers gripped your waist too tight, how you’d gasped his name between kisses like it was a lifeline.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you’d whispered into his mouth.

“You won’t,” he’d vowed, breathless. “Not ever.”

And even back then, before promises and rings and babies with strawberry-stained mouths, he had meant it.

Now, in the warmth of your shared bed, he felt you sigh again.

Just a soft one. Almost imperceptible.

Your leg slid against his beneath the blankets, your head nuzzling deeper into the space between his shoulder and neck. Your fingers curled softly against his chest.

Jake swallowed hard. His hand moved to your back, rubbing in slow, gentle circles, his lips brushing your hair.

He breathed you in.

You were here. You were warm and whole and safe.

And so was he.

☆.

The light was soft when you stirred awake.

You shifted, your body stretching slow beneath the blankets, the cotton sheets warm from shared heat. And then you felt him.

Jake.

Pressed against your back, his chest bare, skin hot and solid.

His arm was around your waist, the other resting on the pillow beside him.

Your hand reached down, brushing over the blanket until you found his fingers resting over your stomach.

You laced yours through them, holding him there. And then you turned, slow and gentle, so you wouldn’t wake him. But he was already awake.

His eyes were open, dark under the faint shadows of morning. He was lying on his side, hair mussed from the bed, jaw dotted with the faintest stubble.

His eyes met yours right away.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“Hey.” His voice was husky, low from sleep… or maybe lack of it.

You frowned softly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. “You didn’t sleep.”

He didn’t answer. Just watched you. As if he was trying to memorize the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes cast shadows beneath your eyes.

You let your palm slide down to cup his cheek.

“What’s on your mind?” you murmured.

He hesitated.

Then, finally: “Nothing I can say without sounding selfish.”

Your brows drew together gently. “Try me.”

But instead of answering, Jake looked down. And you followed his gaze.

The scars. They were always there— some faint and faded, some newer. One near his ribs from that one brutal match three years ago.

Another near his shoulder, still pinkish, like a memory that hadn’t finished healing

You reached out slowly, letting your fingertips trail over the ridges of old pain, old bottles.

He didn’t flinch. He never did, not with you. But his breath did hitch slightly, the tension in his body curling tighter.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the one just below his collarbone. “I love these,” you whispered.

Jake’s throat bobbed with a swallow.

“They’re ugly,” he muttered, half-hearted, like he’d already lost the argument.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “They’re proof you survived. Every one of them means you came back to me.”

Something in him broke a little at that. His mouth opened, maybe to argue, maybe to say something tender, but the words didn’t come. His hand came up instead, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over the apple of it.

“I thought about you last night,” he said softly. “Back when you almost left. Out in the rain…. that fight.”

You nodded, heart aching at the memory. “It was a long time ago.”

His hand slid from your cheek to your neck, fingers splaying out along the curve of it, then down your spine, slow and reverent. “I didn’t sleep because I kept thinking what if you had left. What if I’d pushed it too far, if we never made it here.”

You shifted closer, pressing your body to his fully, your forehead resting against his. “But I didn’t. I stayed. You fought for me.”

His lips touched yours then— barely. A brush, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

Even after all those years.

Your hand slid down between you, over the swell of his chest, your palm flat and warm against his heartbeat.

“Still fighting for you,” he whispered, eyes on yours.

And it was then, without another word, that you leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft at first. Slow. Like a secret.

Your lips moved over his with a quiet kind of hunger, not the desperate kind from that night in the rain, but something deeper.

The kind that comes after years of waking up next to each other. After babies. After late nights and early mornings and scars.

Jake kissed you back like he needed you. Like you were the only thing keeping him grounded in that moment.

His hand slipped under the fabric of your shirt, finding the skin of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could live between your bodies.

You pressed yourself to him, your hand roaming his torso, fingers tracing over his skin like you were memorizing the feel of him.

He let out a shaky breath against your lips, his hips shifting forward just enough for you to feel the truth of his want, hard and insistent against your thigh.

“I missed you,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw. “Even with you right next to me.”

You shivered under his mouth, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently to bring his face back to yours. “Then take it,” you breathed. “Take me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Jake rolled you onto your back slowly, carefully, his body hovering over yours, warm and heavy and familiar. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world and you let him, eyes fluttering shut, breath uneven.

His hands slipped under your shirt and you arched into his touch, letting him pull the fabric up and over your head. He looked down at you like you were art.

You tugged his mouth back to yours.

When he finally slid inside you, it was slow and careful. You both gasped— every time felt new, felt real, like the first and last and only time.

You clung to him, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist.

He rocked into you gently, his mouth finding every part of you he could reach: your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to yours.

“Always,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth.

The rhythm between you built slowly, nothing rushed. You moved together in sync, bodies finding each other like they were made to.

You moaned softly into his ear, hands trailing down his back, nails digging in just enough to make him shiver.

“Lord, I love you,” Jake breathed, pressing his hips deeper. “I love you so much it scares me.”

“I know,” you whispered, blinking through the haze of your pleasure. “I know, baby.”

You held on to each other through it all, the high and the fall, the quiet panting breaths after, the way your hearts beat wildly in sync beneath the mess of limbs and blankets.

After, when your breathing slowed and he was still inside you, arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your neck, you stroked his back softly.

You didn’t say anything. Just kissed the top of his head.

And somewhere down the hall, a floor creaked.

You both froze.

Jake groaned into your shoulder. “Ten dollars that it’s Jane.”

You smiled, lips against his hair. “Or James looking for cereal.”

Jake sighed. “We need a lock on this door.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, pulling the blanket over both your heads as if it could delay reality for just a few more minutes. “Later.”